Between Sea and Sky
by An t-ainm
Summary: Between sea and sky, there is an unsteady horizon, a rope-thin line that we sometimes compare to our hope. And hope is certainly the only thing we have now. (Canon compliant. Involves characters from the rebellion and from the pool of victors.)
1. Prologue - Knots and Splices

_Knots and Splices_  
by Bruce F. Murphy

Take hold of the bitter end;  
pass carefully around  
the standing part,  
being mindful of the bight.  
Finish with a round turn,  
make the knot up tight  
and it will not slip under load.

But you'll find it not  
so easily undone;  
dangerous in the dark and cold  
and wet, when it matters most.  
These knots command allegiances.

The Turk's head and midshipman's bend,  
the lighterman's hitch and  
the hangman's noose.  
See what names mean:  
Knots are men.

Facing page—a simple eye-splice.  
Apply a whipping at the end  
so no strands come loose  
in the braid. The knot will hold  
Anything you care to bind.

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_A/N - A poetry prologue, not written by me. All credit goes to Bruce F. Murphy and _Poetry _(2003)._


	2. Chapter One - Monkey's Fist

_A/N - The Hunger Games and all materials therein belong to Suzanne Collins, not me. This is my first fanfiction, so bear with me. Reviews and feedback are strongly appreciated._

_EDITED June 29, 2014 - Thoughts?_

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_Chapter One – Monkey's Fist_

In District 4, we compare our lives to a rope – threads and pathways of possibility or choice, weaving and twining together in knotted nets of people, places, events. Different fibrous textures of souls that tie into relationships, splices of love and marriage. There is a beginning of each strand, of course and an end, unseen yet not entirely unpleasant. When woven properly, an ending is hard to distinguish among the tangles of memory and the kinks of an embrace that each rope leaves upon another.

Almost ritualistically, this story is told to children as they tie their first proper knot, pudgy fingers stumbling over the thin twine they will learn to cherish, that the majority of adults keep habitually in their pockets. Not that we, as children, understand – loss makes it evident what the rope truly means and time why it matters. The hundredth, maybe the thousandth time the fable has been told we realize, when the ropes begin to constrict around our lives and our stories begin to unspool.

Nearly a decade and a half passed between when I had heard the tale alongside my first knot to the repetition that gave it meaning. It was my brother's voice and my sister's hands in the early morning sunlight that streamed through the open kitchen window, painting the sandy clay walls a warm golden brown and shining upon my sibling's hair of the same color. They leaned together at the sturdy wooden table, different pieces of the same puzzle as the unruly waves of their hair mingled and two sets of sea green eyes focused on the twine woven between long, tanned fingers. The practiced and callused palms of one cupped the smaller and clumsier set of the younger, as they worked their way though a complicated ornamental figure – the monkey's fist.

"Thread it through there," said Tern. "No, here – under the other rope. Try bending it – like that." He smiled vaguely as he guided the rope on which they practiced, finishing the complex knot into a smooth knob, before handing it to my sister to unravel. She tugged loose the strands, anticipating another try, or another lesson, maybe this time a hitch or a bend.

"Look!" Sparrow giggled, as she dangled the half-freed monkey's fist in font of Tern. "There's a kink – an… an embrace, just like you said." They laughed together - at seven years to Tern's eighteen, Sparrow was too young to see the melancholy behind the fable, and in the early summer optimism, it was difficult to fault her for it.

Together my siblings glanced up as I padded into the room, still barefoot and tousle-haired from sleep. Losing focus, Sparrow slid from her perch on a wicker chair and scrambled across the room to hug my waist, planting a cheerful "good morning" into the linen of my shirt. Their smiles were infectious, tugging at the corners of my own mouth.

Tern, sensing the end to the teaching opportunity, pocketed the abandoned twine and moved quietly to the sink basin under the window, filling the kettle for morning tea. Disengaging Sparrow, I joined him, selecting peppermint and fennel from my mother's stores, carefully passing over herbs of rarity or significant medicinal value for those familiar or easily grown. A simple porridge or slices of our seaweed-tinged bread, with perhaps a smear of cheese from the market would suffice for breakfast. I began to search for ingredients, and Tern for our box of matches, as Sparrow tugged a chair across the floor to the epicenter of the sunlight, inadvertently producing a harsh screech.

Wincing, Tern hushed her through his teeth. "Careful! Mum and Dad are still asleep," he added to me in an undertone, "– or in bed, at least. Maximizing the day off, I think."

For all that Panem no longer worshipped any religion, save the myths and spiritualities of communities in individual districts, the Capitol still honored the Sabbath, a day of respite for the working peoples. In District 4, the boats remained moored in the harbor, bumping against each other idly at the dock, with the small exceptions of recreation dinghies and black market side-businesses – coral harvesting, pearl diving, and ignored but still illegal extra fishing, among the multitudes. Generally, Sunday was the sole guaranteed day of rest and family, of sociability and recreation that contrasted with the harrowing work of the remaining six days.

Tern struck a match on the rough walls of stone, then set the teapot on the carefully kindled flame of the gas burner. It was unusual that both he and my younger sister, sound sleepers capable of resting through foghorns, of falling asleep even on the rolling ship deck of a storm should already have woken. The question teetered on my lips:

"Tern, why did – " He touched my arm lightly, jerking his head at Sparrow, now resting unabashed with eyes closed in the puddle of gold, listening to the distant waves crash and the cry of gulls overhead.

"Did I get up so early?" he anticipated in a low voice, and then answered to my shallow nod. "Sparrow woke me – nightmares."

"About what?" An optimist in the extreme, Sparrow was fearless, yet shockingly enduring, more likely to fake bravery than acknowledge need.

Tern sighed distractedly. "The reaping is tomorrow, Lark."

A weight of dread settled into my stomach. Even is a district that spawns so many volunteers, for the majority of inhabitants – the less suicidal, the untrained, those among us satisfied without death, sacrifice or notoriety – the annual Hunger Games are still a veritable source of terror. The reprieve of a Career is not guaranteed, and the chances we take to ensure our immediate survival and our families' may eventually mean our death.

Each year of our eligibility, the Capitol added another slip under our names to the drawing – beginning as twelve-year-olds with a single, solitary chance, and in theory, ending at eighteen with six. The bitter, manipulative temptation added to this system was the tessarae, a year's rations worth of grain and oil to sustain a single person, which we could receive for the price of an extra slip in the reaping, another possible doom. Unlike those in poorer districts, we in District 4 were frequently resourceful or wealthy enough to avoid this gamble, and my family, the Sideons, had managed to be particularly evasive. Between the support of our Aunt Lune, a victor of the 52nd Hunger Games, a hard won garden, and my mother's work as a healer, Tern and I submitted our names one or two additional times per year, to carry us through the hungriest months of winter, when pride prevented us from begging more from the already over-generous Lune.

Over the years, the tighter, colder, more brutal times accumulated, and at the next day's reaping, Tern's name would be submitted eighteen times. Mine would total nine.

Even in the warmth of the morning and the glow of the flame under the kettle, I suddenly felt cold. I blinked away the image of the milky strips of paper, printed in dark block letters with names. Lark Sideon. Tern Sideon. A shiver trickled icily down my spine, a tremble of the possible future. Tern's eyes flickered over my face in concern.

"I know," he breathed, glancing over my shoulder to a still oblivious Sparrow. "There were more this year. We've been lucky, though. Chances are that we'll be fine."

"There's always the Careers, Tern. It's – it's not likely that we…" I trailed off, and there was a momentary silence between us.

He swallowed hard. "There are thousands of other names in there, Lark, thousands. It won't be you, and it won't be me."

The promise was as much for his own benefit as for mine, a sworn statement against what might be. I resisted the urge to contradict him. Whether or not the one of the chosen tributes was a member of our family was, painfully, nearly irrelevant; it would still be a neighbor, a classmate, a friend. Numbers, too, were notoriously deceptive – what of the unfortunate twelve-year-olds that suffered and died each year?

I nodded, and Tern responded with a weak smile, squeezing my arm as we turned back to a happy façade, and to breakfast. He moved to a cupboard, searching for mugs, and I pondered our food supply, trying to straighten my features into something peaceful and nonchalant, to smooth the shaking in my hands. The oat porridge would do – inexpensive and sufficient to warm a portion of the frozen, fearful chasm in my chest. I combined the grains and water in a pot, allowing Tern to light a second burner while I retrieved bowls and spoons of carven driftwood.

Sparrow, absorbing the morning sun like a lazy cat on the dock, began to talk of plans for the blank sand of the day, either ignoring or not sensing our abstracted silence. "A picnic, by the tide pools? Could we look for more shells?"

In interests of appeasing her, Tern concurred, gently suggesting, "Of course. Should we invite Mum and Dad, or perhaps Aunt Lune? She'll be gone for a while, soon."

Lune was, as a victor and mentor, invited or rather summoned to the Capitol each year's Hunger Games. She returned exhausted and sad, temporarily inaccessible to the outside world and "gone" for much longer than a physical absence. I disguised a wince, attempting to forget, at least until tomorrow.

Sparrow quaked, and across the room, I could hear Tern swearing internally at his thoughtlessness. There was no sufficient apology, and he didn't attempt one beyond a remorseful squeeze of her shoulder. A thick silence settled upon the kitchen, making the quiet groans and squeaking boards of our parents beginning to rise audible. Biting her lip, Sparrow shook free of Tern and fled from the room, presumably to take refuge in the safety of our mother.

This time, Tern swore out loud, flinging himself dejectedly into Sparrow's abandoned chair. I sighed and moved to stare out the window, to avoid eye contact. My brother echoed my exhalation, venting the saddened frustration of his own.

"I try so hard to forget this. I try so hard to forget about the danger, about the Games, about the way the Capitol…exploits – uses us for punishment and their own entertainment." His voice rose, tinged with a note of desperation.

"Tern…"

"They terrify Sparrow, even now, and you, whether you show it or not. And frankly, they terrify me, too. We work, and we sacrifice, and then they scare and abuse us. It's not fair. It's just not fair. How–"

"Tern, stop." I turned away from the clear sky and the distant gray sea to the anger and despair of my brother's face. "You can't say this. It's true, I know, but you can't. Stop." Tern deflated, turmoil in his eyes - crashing, storming seawater.

"Sorry." The word was harsh and broken, as he folded emotion inward. Another breath composed him. "Anyway, what are you doing today?"

I looked back out the window to the ragged stone beyond the beach that rose stunningly and unexpectedly from the ocean. Birds circled in the calm air, and waves lapped gently at the base. The cliffs were hard, foreboding, silent – my refuge.

"Climbing with Cairn, I think, but if the picnic goes through, I'll come."

The majority of my Sundays were spent exploring the rocks with my lifelong friend, pushing the limits of the sea, the sky and ourselves. Cairn had introduced me his intimate study of the paths across the steep rock faces, taught me to climb rope-less and initiated me to art of falling gracefully into the deep ocean below. It was an escape, a reality, a confidence that scrubbed the bleakness of the week from our skins.

"Back by afternoon, then?"

I grinned. "He'll tire me out before that, anyway."

The teapot began to whistle shrilly, and my parents' footsteps sounded on the ancient, steep stairs. The silence was broken, the crest of waves onto sand, and a new day begun.


	3. Chapter Two - Double Fishermen's Knot

_A/N - All rights to Suzanne Collins, etc. Review and other feedback strongly appreciated!_

_EDITED June 29, 2014 - Suggestions?_

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_Chapter Two – Double fisherman's knot_

The moist, salty air was beginning to warm when I slipped out the back door. The faint dirt path from our house ran through my mother's best of vegetables and rows of herbs, weaving around mounds of potatoes and poles of beans, sidestepping clumps of lemon balm and horehound. The garden meandered into the grassy hillside that rose subtly above the low sprawl of the district, butting against the edge of the Victor's Village, where the survivors' homes lay plastered in white and inlaid with gleaming patterns of alabaster and shells. Below and to the north spread the ramble of fishermen's cottages, condensing into a maze of merchants and markets, stretching to the long fishy piers of the ocean in the west, and growing to the grandeur of the strangely marble Justice Building and the equally luxurious house of the mayor in the east. The lovely blue-gray sea shimmered and lapped in the distance, and damp forests stood quietly sentinel where they encroached beyond the links of the electric fence in green groves and thickets.

The view, though remarkable, was familiar as a rope in my hands.

I turned from the garden down a worn track in the grass that spanned the distance between the grand houses of the victors and the sandy beach beyond, leading to the extreme southern edge, equipped with small docks and, by quiet agreement, reserved for recreational activities. As people of the sea, we swam at every opportunity, basked in the sun, absorbed the buoyant softness of the surf, and it was here, away from the industrial fish processing, that we found our solstice. It was here, out of practice and habit, that Cairn and I began ours.

When the tall grasses ceased to brush my legs and the gray-yellow sands began to tug and the tops of my feet, sifting around my ankles, I slowed from a trot to a smooth walk, listening to the nearby ebb and flow of waves and watching for the appearance of shells under my feet as I moved towards the dock where, as always, Cairn would be. Today he was already waiting, a solitary figure where the boards met the ocean, dangling lanky legs into the receding tide. The ancient wood creaked and complained quietly when I padded onto the suspended planks, and he turned lazily to greet me.

"Hey, Lark." I smiled a greeting and slid off my sandals to rest beside him. My toes created a ripple in the waves as they skimmed the surface, and I savored the mild coolness, the perpetual motion of the current. A companionable silence settled softly upon us, a product of years of friendship and trust. I knew without looking that the right half of his mouth would be curved upward in a smile, that his dark brown hair would brush the tips of his ears and fall hopelessly across his forehead, and that his long tanned limbs would hang loosely from his body. His green eyes – fisherman's green, it was sometimes called – would be trained out to where the sea melded with the horizon, where all things begin and end.

"Climbing today?"

"Of course," he responded, looking over to me. "Always."

"I need to be back by afternoon," I added conditionally. "Sparrow wants a picnic." After my parents had calmed her, speaking coaxing words about her safety and ours, Sparrow had decided that yes, she would still want a picnic, particularly because, not in spite, of Lune's impending absence. "You're invited, too, if you like."

Cairn nodded, laughing a little. "I wouldn't miss it."

He rose to his feet and pulled off his loose cotton shirt, letting it fall onto the dock besides his shoes, so that only his canvas shorts remained. I stood with him, but maintained the light sleeveless shirt and durable shorts I had worn, as they were sufficient for climbing while light and decent enough for the swim to the cliffs. When I was younger, I would have stripped away my clothing with him, but modesty, age, and propriety demanded something different now.

"Ready?"

We leapt into the waves in effortless unison, relishing the sudden noiselessness under the surface and emerging only when the bubbles ceased to rise from mouth and nose. At a steady paddling pace, we then angled for the rock boundary of our harbor, for while the cliffs were continuous, meeting the northern and southern edges of the beach, certain sections of rock we had discovered to be completely impassible. This included the overlook that bordered the ships and the fish market, as well as, unfortunately, the lip of stone accessible by the sands near the recreational dock. Cairn and I, should we endeavor the treacherous face of the stone, were required reach the base of our climbs by water, a swim that we now knew indisputably well.

The tide eased our stokes and sped our progress, pulling us to the face of rock. Cheeks pushed to the rough surface, bare feet slipping on the water-smoothed underside, our fingers searched for cracks and handholds, and we wrenched ourselves into the dryness of the air. I leaned into the security of the solid surface, watching my companion.

"Where to today?" Cairn asked, shaking the moisture from his body, one limb at a time. My eyes wandered the ocean-carved overhang, and searched the lonely, crumbling lighthouse that towered above District 4.

"No idea. Explore some, then the ledge, maybe?" We had discovered the narrow lip in the rock some years ago, just wide enough for two to sit, and it had become our reprieve from the exertion of the bouldering. He agreed, shimming off and to the right, as I pulled directly upward, in a pathetic attempt to head him off. From below, Cairn playfully snagged my ankle and tugged, disrupting the careful balance of my motions and, with a rush of air and careful twist, I plummeted into the seawater. Seconds later, I spat the salt from my mouth in a mock-indignant hiss.

"Not fair!"

"You cheated."

Laughter overcame us both, hysterical convulsions that knocked him splashily off the rock. After treading water momentarily, we gathered our amusement, and I heaved myself back up, shifting and scrambling along the ridges and eroded divots. Still chortling slightly, Cairn swung lightly and methodically behind me. The morning wore away in this fashion, as we meandered around the various routes of the rock, edging near the top then descending, scrabbling for grip on nearly sheer surfaces, and calling advice back and forth:

"Up and to your left – a little higher –"

"Where? I don't see it…"

"The knob-ish shape, sort of brown?" The rock lingered unwilling out of my reach.

"You're taller than I am, Cairn. My arms aren't that long."

"Shut it, Lark. Just because you're short, doesn't mean you're blind, too." The grin leaked into his words. "Reach!"

And I did, contorting awkwardly and swinging one foot loose to snag a rounded grip that would have been effortless with the few extra inches of Cairn's frame. "Thanks. The next foothold is by your knee, if you're looking."

"Got it."

Eventually, the unforgiving barrier of stone bit into our extremities, rubbing blisters even through a sailor's rope-worn palms and scratching the callused balls of our feet. Exhausted, we traversed our sanctioned resting place, settling side by side on the ledge. I leaned the crown of my head against the wall, soaking in the light and relaxing my muscles as our legs swung over the precipitous drop. The long tangle of my damp hair dripped and slowly dried into its usual messy waves, salty and slightly unkempt. I knew no greater serenity than here, with the sea air on my face and Cairn's familiar warmth next to my body.

His voice jolted the stillness: "Are we meeting Lune for the picnic today?"

I bobbed my head in idle assent. "Yes. Sparrow wanted – we wanted – to spend sometime with her before…" My voice trailed off uneasily, not wanting to mention the taboo of the Hunger Games, to set both of our nerves on edge. Cairn was not so easily fooled.

"The Games." I opened my eyes, and watched his body stiffen, fear and distance clouding his eyes.

"How many times, Cairn?" How badly should I worry, tomorrow, when the odds are reckoned?

"Thirty-six."

His voice was confessional, admitting what I suspected. Cairn's large family, the Thys, were not privy to the wealth of much of District 4, and a prideful, protective nature prevented him from allowing his younger sisters to submit their names. Somewhat impossibly, through risk and sacrifice, endurance and struggle, Cairn and his parents together scrounged together each day's rations: Mera worked with my mother, in District 4's apothecary; his father, Sean, spent long hours at sea as a helmsman and expert navigator; Cairn himself traded the black market after each school day. With some measure of fortune, the Thys survived.

"And yours?"

"Nine." The word tasted guilty and shameful, painful in my inability to share his burden. I found myself echoing my brother's words, making promises over which I had no control: "We'll be fine. Really. Just as we always have."

"You don't know that."

"No," I admitted, "but since when does that matter?" His wince transformed slowly to a grudging smile, sparking a light behind the depths of his eyes.

"May the odds be ever in your favor," he said sardonically, daring a contradiction.

I knew my lines without hesitation. "And in yours." Then I confirmed, "We'll be here again, immediately after the reaping. It's still a half a day off, isn't it?"

"I know," he agreed, parenthetically adding: "With any luck." Cairn turned slightly, measuring the distance of the sun from the horizon, one hand over the other. "The sun's past noon. We should go."

As though it were only the brief fall off the dock, instead of meters upon meters of empty space, he slid off the ledge and plunged into the waves, caught elegantly between crests. Sighing at his extravagant comfort, his unshakable faith in the rock and the ocean, I followed. There was a beautiful moment of weightlessness as I fell, splashed, and then surfaced beside Cairn, and then we set out wordlessly for land.

The tug of current and tide chaffed against the fluidity of our strokes, pushing relentlessly, even as our feet contacted with the sandy bottom and we slogged through the stir of gravel and seawater to the shore. I waited, wringing out the dripping mass of hair and clothes that hung from my body, as Cairn retrieved our shoes and his shirt from the dock. He shook rivulets of water from his eyes and dried his wet skin, handing me sandals that I neglected to put on.

"Come on," I urged, glancing down the coastal stretch. "They've already started – without us."

The picnic gathering was visible a ways down the sand, two clumps of bright clothed figures and the flapping edges of a frayed blanket. As we approached, the images clarified: Tern and Sparrow labored of an expansive sand castle, large and turreted, encased in recently collected shells and somewhat resembling a home of the Victor's Village; my parents and Aunt Lune rested on the cloth square, leaning into a conversation with stony expressions. The tone of the hushed interchange traveled on the vague breeze, tinged with anger and hesitation. Communicating with a gentle touch and a jerk of my head, I slowed with Cairn to an agonizing shuffle, approaching at a speed calculated to maximize our time spent in an unnoticeable, yet still audible distance.

"I – I didn't know you could refuse."

"Of course I can. It has been over fifteen years since I missed a Hunger Games and the prosti – the business that goes with it," Lune snapped at my mother. "Don't be ridiculous, Swallow." She paused, netting in her temper. "Besides, one of the other victors said that they'd go." Her voice was firm, meaning to close the matter.

"Not Mags, is it?" my father questioned. "She's too old, and the other girl, the new victor – Annie, was it? Anyway, we all know how it is; the – the mad one needs her here."

"Meredith said she'd go – and you know she'll be fine, Ross. Mags may be old, but Meredith is just as undesirable," Lune replied tetchily. Despite the images of the public, the majority of victors aged from the screen-polished glory of their victories. At the oldest, Mags was gray-haired and largely incoherent, while others, such as Lune herself, had already begun the slow carving of lines around the edges of her eyes and mouth. One of the four living female victors from District 4, Meredith had been originally plain and uncouth, scarcely acknowledged in the Capitol, let alone appreciated, and this neither the arena nor time could change. "She won't have any clients to deal with – there."

"And President Snow? He mustn't like this…"

Something hardened in Lune's face hardened, a shadow of the dangerous competitor who had won the most brutal of games. "Snow said they would manage without me. He knows that I have my own life, here; he said that these choices are mine to make and that certain things sometimes have to give. It's fine, Swallow, fine." Then she amended, in a calmer tone, "You and Ross shouldn't worry, and neither should your children. I'll stay here, and it won't be a problem."

Cairn and I had approached gradually enough that we now stood so near as to perceive the tension between my father's eyebrows and the anxiety of my mother's posture, to feel the frozen wind of Lune's indomitable will. The entire setting had the fermenting smell of an interchange we were not meant to hear, a sense of furtive conspiracy. As our edging movement caught the peripherals of her vision, my aunt turned with sudden, nervous movements, her face splashed with agitation that confirmed my suspicions; yet with the finesse of an expert, she quelled her expression of unease and stood to greet us.

"Lark. Cairn." Lune embraced us through our damp clothes. "It's good to see you. Was the morning climb good?" I nodded and returned her touch fondly. Lune was a family member to whom I was close, for all her absences and the untouchable silences when she slipped into the retrospective grief of her Games.

"As usual," added Cairn. He, too, judged from my parents' guardedness that this was not the moment for curiosity, that a pretended ignorance was, for the time being, the best ruse. "We're both tired, though."

"And hungry," I agreed, as Lune released me. Following Cairn's lead, I held back the confused jumble of information that we had gleaned from the conversation. "Have you already eaten?"

My mother nodded, pushing a wicker basket toward us. "Yes, but there's still plenty. Help yourselves."

I pulled the back the covering cloth and began to divide the remaining meal into two. Herbed and salted fish, a greenish bread, summer fruit from our family trees: a feast characteristic of District 4. I settled in the sand beside the adults' blanket, handing Cairn a one of the napkins of food as he sat beside me and quietly began to eat, savoring the mixing flavors and textures after the long exertion of the morning. Gingerly, my father broke the silence:

"Lune's going to be staying here for the Games this year." I managed a muffled grunt of assent through the dense food particulates in my mouth, then, at Cairn's equally impaired laughter and my mother's reproving glare, refined my response:

"Oh?" I swallowed the last of the chewy bread crust, and continued, deliberately lying. "I didn't know that."

"Officially approved," Lune responded, with a rather forced brightness. "I'll be here with you, and all I'll be required to do is watch."

"That's a nice change." Cairn took another bite, and added unseemly, "I dumph emph oou –"

"Swallow, Cairn," I said, watching Lune suppress a laugh at our similarity.

"I didn't think you could do that," he finished, unabashed.

"I can," Lune confirmed, a bit of a frown in her words. "Someone else is going in my place. Anyway, Finnick will still be there, and that's really all that Snow–" My mother cut her off sharply.

"All that matters. When would we ever want to miss the famous Finnick Odair?" she joked, attempting to bypass the awkwardness of the moment, but the statement fell flat, sprawling in an ungainly way on the beach between us, erasing nothing that we had seen or heard: Lune would not be going to the Capitol, and regardless of our collective denial, it mattered.

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_A/N - A bit more exposition this chapter, and lots of new characters. Setting up the major conflict, and I promise that the next chapter is suspenseful - and exciting. Stay tuned!_


	4. Chapter Three - Carrick Bend

_A/N - I own nothing. Reviews, please?_

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_Chapter Three – Carrick Bend_

Our response to the day of the reaping is inevitably paradoxical: in preparation for the possibility of being torn apart, we draw closer together. Sparrow, upon waking, snuck across our shared bedroom and burrowed under the sheets at my side, warmth seeping into my bedclothes. Shortly, Tern wandered across the hall, seating himself comfortably on Sparrow's abandoned comforter and nattering about meaningless topics that somehow put us all in stiches. Only after a generous amount of time did the insistence of my mother draw us out of the cocoon-like warmth and, one by one, into the vats of steaming water and scrubbing of lavender soap. By a jealous miracle, I was last to rise from bed and suffered gladly the heat of the fresh drawing of bathwater she had prepared and the gentle perfume of the bathroom's moist air.

When I finally withdrew from the bubbling clutches of my bath, I quietly crossed the distance from the burbling of the bathtub drain to the light instances of my mother as she dressed Sparrow, dribbling water from the tendrils of hair that escaped the confines of my threadbare towel:

"Here, put on your shirt. No, sweetheart, not that way; that's backwards. Buttons to the front." She turned as I entered, hearing the hinges of the door creak from the permanent salt of the nearby ocean. "Morning, Lark. I laid out a dress on your bed – and squeeze out your hair before you put it on; you're still dripping." My mother smiled, leaning to bestow a perfunctory kiss on my damp forehead, and returned quickly to Sparrow's woes. "There you go, but you're a button off. Let me…"

I shook a splatter of water from the ends of my hair as she began to fix my sister's blouse, and acknowledged her quietly. "Thanks, Mum."

She rarely was bothered to arrange my wardrobe or to criticize it, save for events of special public prestige, namely the reaping and any visitations that followed. In these cases, my mother typically bypassed my strictly practical sensibilities for a garment of her own, unerringly lovely choosing. The dress designated for today was no exception: spread across the blankets in a light, leafy shade of green, it was calf-length and sleeveless, held together by an intricate web of knots spanning the back and shoulders. I couldn't keep the tone of incredulity from my voice as I clutched my towel in one hand and with the other stroked the soft, tight weave of the fabric. "This was yours?"

"No, actually," my mother replied, a quiet, prideful warmth in her voice, as she continued ministering her attentions to Sparrow's shirt. "It was your Aunt Lune's, one of the simpler pieces that she wore on her Victory Tour. The seamstress altered it in repayment for the tonic that I gave her when her son was sick this last winter." The apothecary did good business but often traded indebted services and long delayed favors in place of money.

She rose, picking up a skirt from my sister's cot. "We took off the sleeves and modified the bust for you," she added, astutely noting my shoulders, permanently broadened from climbing, and the woeful inadequacy of my chest, even at sixteen. "I thought it might bring a bit of good luck for you today. Do you like it?"

I fumbled with the inadequacy of my words, shocked by the decadency of her gift. "Yes. Of you, always."

Her eyes shimmered sadly, sea green and bottomless. "Dry off and get dressed. I'll put your hair up for you." I mumbled my consent, resigning to the tugging of the comb along my scalp and the brush of her fingertips as she wove an intricate twisted and knotted bun at the base of my neck, traditional to our region. Between the borrowed garment and the applied elegance of my hair, normally loose or messily braided in the tangling sea breeze, as I descended into the kitchen and view of my waiting brother and father, I felt uncommonly and warily unlike the freedom of my everyday self.

A quiet pride lit the smile below my father's scruff of a beard. "You look wonderful, Lark." He sat peaceably beside Tern, scoured of salt and appropriately clothed for our day of national prominence.

"Thanks." I pulled out a seat at the weathered wood tabletop. Footsteps rang behind me at two paces, one galloping and the other striding slowly, and signaled the entrance of the remaining quotient of our family. At a bounding run, Sparrow launched herself onto her father, disregarding our formal attire as he squeezed tightly an enveloped her in swinging hug. Laughingly, my father brushed away her tickle of hair as he returned Sparrow's giggling form to the floor and greeted my solemn mother with a comforting embrace. Together, they turned to Tern and me, their dangerously eligible children.

Observing with anxious eyes, my mother sighed heavily, and with her exhalation, the childish joy evaporated and the temperature of the kitchen dropped several degrees. She reached into the pocket of her skirt, extracting slowly two circular bands of rope then pushing then across the table towards her children.

"Here," she said softly, with a fair bit of reluctance. "Your father and I made these, a gift for each of you." I picked up the leftmost one, running a finger along the thin curves and strong threads that composed the bracelet – a carefully shaped carrick bend, a common ornamental knot that formed a seemingly endless weave. It slid smoothly onto my wrist, a gentle weight, a reminder of the ropes of our home.

"We thought that if –" My mother swallowed tightly. " – if either of you is – for some reason – reaped , that they might make a good token – something from us, from home." Her voice broke slightly, and my father continued:

"It's unthinkable, I know, but if –" Tern cut him off.

"It won't happen, but –" He took the other rope band, allowing it to roll over the roughness of his hand and wind along the bony outcroppings of his wrist. "– if it does, thank you. Lark?" I was staring absently, still fingering the carrick bend and desperately imagining a possible future in which a chance decision, a simple slip of paper could end everything I knew. "Lark?" Composing myself, I faced my parents' desperate eyes.

"Thank you," I said. "We won't need them."

* * *

The shop-lined streets were already crowded by packs nervous children and apprehensive parents, worried or indifferent citizens and morbid racketeers taking bets on volunteers or tributes when our family arrived. We pressed together under the weight of the crowd, wary of the blur of unfamiliar faces and names. In truth, much of District 4 was strange to me: as a long, stretched costal region, the district was made up of a series of modest villages that clung to the edges of the ocean, separated by cliffs, lonely dunes and beaches, intruding groves of moist forests near the vibrating electric border fence. Communication was word of mouth and the occasional letter through the sailors and fishermen who travel between harbors to hawk their catch to merchants, who, in turn, sell to the capitol trains. Our town was the largest of these establishments, equipped with the district square, the presence of the Mayor, the Justice Building and, of course, the Victor's Village.

On Reaping Day, therefore, it was our honor of hosting the eligible inhabitants of each township, in addition to an extra quotient of peacekeepers and sanctioned Capitol representatives, cramming the cobblestones in by gender and age, bounded the pressure of breathless spectators on the edges and surrounding streets. Tern and I drew away from our parents to register with a strict Capitol official and allowed ourselves to be herded into rank by age group: the oldest, most liable to be selected or to volunteer, crammed at the base of the marble steps and staring miserably into the faces of mentors and our gaudily dressed escort; the youngest pushed against the rope boundary at the back of the crowd, still within the reach of their fretful parents.

My eyes followed my brother's figure as it receeded into the division of eighteen-year-old males as I was jostled into the rows of others my age, accidently treading on the exposed toes of my neighbor. Her intake of breath was an indignant hiss:

"Ouch! Watch it, fish-girl!" I glanced up at the girl, her flouncy blonde locks and irritated brown eyes, arms muscled and bearing proud, disdainful. Her confidence, her lack of empathy on this day: clear markings of a Career, one of those who trained in an old abandoned warehouse with the help of former victors, and who considered the likes of fishermen below their status as future Capitol favorites.

"Sorry," I mumbled, straightening up. Before she could further berate me, a startling thump of a microphone indicated the ceremony's beginning.

"Welcome, welcome," trilled Duenna Peron, the designated escort for District 4 who stood between the infamous Finnick Odair and Meredith, his significantly less lovely counterpart. In Duenna's yearly display of ridiculous Capitol attire, she sported a coif of unnaturally black hair and a narrowly-tailored, flamboyantly blue suit. Ridiculous gold tattoos formed filigree around her excited eyes, which failed to absorb the solemn spirit of the crowd. "It is the 72nd year of our annual tradition, and let me be the first say, happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor!" A smile curled on red stained lips, and my breath caught in my chest, growing rapidly stale with anxiety. "Ladies first!"

A slender white hand stretched toward the rightmost glass bowl, its spherical shape filled with the whiteness of a looming future. Duenna lowered the tips of her painted fingers into the conglomerate of slips, moving searchingly for a choice, as my heart churned desperately in my chest, seeming determined to optimize what might become a very limited quantity of beats. I squeezed my eyes shut. Please…

"Shelly Arine!" A shriek rose from the cluster of thirteen-year-olds, as the chosen tribute, slight, wild-eyed, and miserably young, dissolved into a storm of tears, staring horrified at the approaching escort of peacekeepers. Shoving me aside and elbowing her way into the thicket of approaching white uniforms, a proud declaration burst from the blonde career beside me.

"I volunteer!" The confidence in her tone overwhelmed the former tribute, now reprieved, who collapsed onto the cobblestones, gasping as the peacekeepers turned to their new charge. I resumed breathing, as my earlier neighbor mounted the stage, face shining with the proud declaration of her name, Oarna Star. Faced with this, I recognized her vaguely, and despite her scorn, I felt pity and sadness and a guilty sense of relief.

"Excellent," proclaimed Duenna, the upturned crimson of her mouth eerie, a smear of blood red across a cheerful face. The lines of gold slithered, small snakes constricting around her eyebrows. Leaving the side of her female tribute, she strode to the other shining, somewhat fuller globe of names. "And now for our male tribute!"

I felt as though the tattoos of her face had constricted around my chest as my eyes searched for my brother's slouching posture, for Cairn's height and dark hair. Terror clawed at my throat, and Duenna fumbled with the paper in her talon-like nails, unfolding the strip to read the deathly print.

"Tern Sideon!"

And the world fell still.


	5. Chapter Four - Crown Knot

_A/N - All rights to Suzanne Collins. Reviews and feedback are always welcome!_

* * *

_Chapter Four – Crown Knot_

Noise was obscured by a static, a continuous rushing wave; my vision was blurred and burning as though underwater. Shock and sheer horror entangled my ankles, knotting my feet to the ground - a twisted net and storm-blown rigging. Vaguely, it registered that my brother had mounted the stage, that the hope of another volunteer had failed, that he had shaken Oarna's hand and received, stone faced, the crowd's congratulations. Even as the words of release came from the peacekeepers and the surrounding children streamed back to the safety of their families, I failed to move or blink, rooted in the moment where faith had ended.

"Lark." Someone approached by my side, touching my shoulder. I remained fixated. "Lark!" Cairn shook me gently. I turned to see the concern in his eyes, and blinked back tears, swallowing hard. "Move, go on," he urged, speaking over the milling hum of the crowd. "You don't have much time."

I looked in the direction he jerked his head, to where the shapes of my family ascended the slick stairs of the justice building, disappearing into the whiteness of officials and the darkness of the wooden doors. "How long do you think we have?" I asked, attempting to subdue the quiver in my voice, as I began to walk, weaving between the remaining spectators. Their surge parted as though I carried plague, the ill luck of a reaped family member.

Striding beside me, Cairn shrugged. "A half an hour, maybe, but you'll only be allowed a few minutes to visit." A fraction of time for the remains of a lifetime.

I nodded in agreement. "I know." The marble rise appeared below my feet, and Cairn slowed, snagging my arm.

"I'll wait here for you. I'm not really important enough to visit." He released me, calling as I turned. "Tell him good b– good luck for me." Whatever the correction, I thought, lifting the hem of the green skirt and pacing up the steps in twos, the truth was still in his tone: tell him goodbye. In all probability, I had only minutes left with my sibling. A lying optimism or an honest farewell? Despite pain, despite sadness, despite hope – Tern deserved the latter.

My parents huddled together in the foyer of the justice building, Sparrow clutching at their knees with small streams running down her cheeks. In another corner, a pair of adults and a young boy conspicuously resembling the female tribute stood solemnly, chins raised in half-hearted pride. A burly teen stalked back and forth near them, twitchy with the nervousness of a friend or something more significant. A clump of white-clothed peacekeepers strode repeatedly across along the gilt walls; the mentors and our district escort gathered in conference around the registrar's desk at the back of the echoing hall, heads bowed in a whisper. I winced as my sandals slapped a puncture in the silence, as the inhabitants of the terse hall simultaneously flinched and several pairs of eyes follow me to my family.

Extracting herself from the security of my father's embrace, from the comfortable rest of her head under his jawbone, my mother stepped towards me and reassuringly stroked my cheek, hand trembling.

"We were worried," she said. A wave of nauseous guilt slammed into my stomach, the sickening relief of having not been reaped, and immediately washed an apology from my mouth.

"I'm so sorry. I didn't know – I thought that we would –" With a hushing noise, my mother shook her head, allowing my father to complete her thought.

"It isn't that." His face was sad, impassable. "We saw you waiting. We were worried you wouldn't come to see Tern off." As my lips parted in a barrage of apology, my father continued, brushing away my interruption. "We took three slots, just in case. Five minutes each. Aunt Lune's in there right now," he explained. As my mother squatted down to comfort a still sniffling Sparrow, I leaned into my father, resting my forehead on his chest, trying to lose my worry to his warmth and reassurance. His next words were lost into my hair.

"Sorry?"

"Lune's coming," he repeated. I twisted to watch my aunt storm from a highly polished door, slamming its weight in the faces of the pursuing squad of peacekeepers and stalking over to the knot of Capitol-bound mentors and escort. Through the ringing echo, I could hear her snarl, a simmering anger behind the indistinct shape of her words. As Lune jabbed a finger at the defensive Finnick, the pack of white officials judged her occupied and changed their trajectory. As they angled towards the clump of our family, my mother glanced hesitantly between me and their approach.

"Lark," she said, measuring her words, "we have the three slots, but we don't necessarily have to take them. Do you want to come with us?" I shook my head, wanting my final goodbye to be for Tern's ears alone.

Her gaze was quizzical. "Would you like to go first, or would you prefer to wait?"

"Last, if that's okay." A parting requires certain things – solidarity, compassion, some modicum of faith and acceptance – and this Sparrow's tears, the desperation in my mother's face could not provide. I accepted silently my parents' nod of concurrence. Collecting Sparrow, they submitted themselves to be marched away roughly, encircled peacekeepers, and then vanished across the room in a clatter of bolts and hinges.

Somewhere deep within my chest, the obligation to be calm momentarily released, and panic burned across my vision. I staggered backward to the cool smoothness of the wall, leaning into its stability and allowing my eyelids to slide shut, to minimize my surroundings to sound alone. Over the frantic rhythm of my pulse and the jerking gasps that snagged in my lungs, I could detect Lune's barely suppressed shriek.

"I don't understand. I don't understand! He can't have been reaped." Tern. _No, Lune, I don't understand either._ "President Snow guaranteed immunity – it was a condition – a promised condition! I wouldn't do what I do – what Snow demands I do – if it didn't protect them. I just don't understand." Her words were nearly hysterical.

"Don't use his name." Male, terse but smoothed sultry with practice - undoubtedly Finnick.

A rasp interjected. "I don't know what the problem is, Lune," said Meredith. "What you do in the Capitol is your business, and who's reaped shouldn't impact who you f –" Lune's scream punctured the air, subhuman, unhinged. My eyes snapped open, immediately drawn to the incensed, grief-stricken face of my aunt.

"How dare you! Do you think I sell myself for the sheer fun of it? How stupid –"

Finnick broke in, anxious. "Lune, don't." He reached to grasp her arm, only to be slapped away with a crack that rang off the marble. As her face contorted again, he dropped his voice. "Damn it, Lune, stop! Look, you know as well as I do that when you refuse the Capitol, there are consequences." She made a deranged, disdainful sound in her throat, as Meredith looked on, bewildered.

Face sad with resignation, Finnick continued, ticking names off of his fingers. "Me, Annie, our parents, my sisters – even Bligh." Another District 4 victor, perhaps. "The president doesn't allow choices. And this year, you said no."

Trembling, Lune brought her hands to her face and a strangled sound came to me across the room – sobs. "So this is my fault," she choked. Finnick's reluctant, abstracted nod was a punch. A burning smirk plastered across Meredith's face. "I'm so selfish." Face wet, Lune lifted her head, angrily rubbing away the tears. "Promise me, Finnick. Give him a chance." Another nod.

Meredith burst in. "No, I thought we agreed – I get the boy this year!"

Finnick's expression was murderous. "Shut up, Meredith," he demanded flatly, then ignoring her pointed glare, turned to my aunt. "I promise," Finnick sighed. "I'll do what I can."

Lune suddenly embraced him, shoulders heaving, and mumbled something I couldn't catch. Her tenderness lasted only for a moment, and then, with equal abruptness, she jerked away and strode towards the door, walking blind with saltwater and unaware of my presence. The slam announcing her exit reverberated, nearly obscuring the steps and sniffles of my family returning. Still reeling, I straightened resolutely, as the peacekeepers rearranged their circle around me, making two sectors of our family.

"Lark," started my mother, reaching towards me. A white figure closed the gap, and she began to plead, voice cracking. "No, please – just for a minute. Lark!"

The peacekeepers surged, and the butt of a gun prods the small of my back. "Move. You have five minutes, and they start now."

Catching the watery green of my mother's eyes, I attempted a smile, shaking my head and forming my expression into a promise. "I'll be back soon, Mum."

"Move!" The gun smacked with bruising force against my shoulder blades, forcing my feet to follow the tilt of my upper body forward. I fell into step with the icy-white guards on either side, progressing down a maze of hallways and a twisting series of stairs to an imposing metal door. Hands thrust a key into the lock, fumbled with the latch. A rough grip jerked me frontward, and as I lurched on the threshold, the door crashed shut.

Across the room, I could see a wood paneled window, the gray planes of sea and blue sky beyond, bordered by cliffs and streaks of furled white sails. Tern, dejectedly leaning his forehead against the panes, turned sharply at the noise of the door.

"Lark." His face was ashen, eyes dull with worry. The abject horror in his expression stunned me into silence, and at a loss, I crossed to him, folding his lean body into my arms and allowing his narrow, pointed chin to rest on the crown of my head. After squeezing me tightly for a moment, Tern released and held me at arm's length.

"How are you?"

I laughed at the absurdity of his question. "I should be asking you that."

"Terrible." His voice shook, and he looked away, unwilling to reveal his tears. "Lark, I'm going to die."

"You don't know that," I corrected, desperate.

The smile in his voice was bitter. "Optimist. But I do know, Lark – I can't kill someone." Tern turned back to the window, wrapping long arms around his chest and staring out at the breaking waves. "I don't want you to pretend otherwise." I moved to stand at his side.

"I won't, but Mum and Dad and Sparrow will. They want you to come home." I swallowed hard. "I want you to come home."

Tern shook his head. "It won't happen, Lark."

"You've got a shot – Lune convinced Finnick to mentor you."

"Really? I thought it was Meredith's year," he replied skeptically, then amended, "It doesn't matter much, anyway."

"Lune thought that it did," I reminded him, trying not to think about the argument I had overheard, "and we should believe her." Tern shook his head, cynical. "Look, at least he can get you sponsors, at least the Capitol might like you – being related to Lune has to count for something." I sounded wretched, even in my own ears.

"Let's be realistic, Lark – I'm not Lune. I can't win, and having Finnick won't matter." The weight of our future sunk onto my shoulders, bowing my head. Tern added a request. "Promise you'll take care of Sparrow and Mum – I worry about them."

"I promise," I told him, and the harsh reality that I might never see my brother again stung at my eyes. "Tern?"

"Hmm?" His eyes were trained on the smeared blue of the horizon, the undefinable meeting of sea and sky, memorizing the last views of home. The brown mop of hair graced the tips of tanned ears; his brow furrowed with the familiar concentration of a memory, a current, a difficult knot.

"I –" The words I had mentally rehearsed stuck in the tightness of my throat. "I want you to know, going into this, that if you come home, or not, I forgive you for what happens in the arena. I know you won't like your choices, and I know you can't always control what happens, and if you decide – if you decide to die, I forgive you for that, too. And Tern?" A reddening wetness hung in his eyes as he met my gaze. "I'll miss you."

"Miss you, too," he choked out. "Already."

And when the mob of peacekeepers burst in, we stood motionless, gazing sightlessly out the window. The hands of a guard twisted arms behind my back, dragging me forcibly towards the door as I resisted, deadweight. Pain shot through my shoulders as I was wrenched backwards, refusing turn away from my final moments with my brother. Tern's face was blank, eyes aged with wisdom and resignation, with years that he might never have. I watched his mouth open and close twice, soundlessly shaping my name.

A peacekeeper and the closed door cut off my view, as another official hoisted me to my feet. "I'll make it so you can't walk if you don't stand up."

I stumbled away from my brother and his fate, jagged and unfamiliar sobs emanating into the silent hallway, and ringing in my ears.

* * *

_A/N - I feel strangely uncertain about this chapter. Thoughts, anyone?_


	6. Chapter Five - Slip Knot

_A/N - Sorry to keep you waiting, everyone. This chapter went through a serious bit of editing, and I had to send it through my editor (read - wonderfully patient friend) before posting. A few new characters... But I won't hold you up any longer. Enjoy!_

* * *

_Chapter Five – Slip Knot_

The world was ending, thread unraveling faster than I could tie it back together. Tern was gone, a strand spiraling through my fingers and slipping away, the possibility of forever dizzyingly close. As I shook free of the entourage of Peacekeepers and dragged myself into the echoing emptiness of the foyer, the mentors and escort now departed, Oarna's well-wishers having left for the train station, the voices of my parents and of Sparrow came as though from across a great distance.

"Lark, are you alright?" My mother, concerned. "Did the Peacekeepers give you trouble?" Feeling the growing ache of bruises across my back and shoulders, I began to bob my head, then shook it instead, and in my odd, discombobulated jerk, effectively failed to answer either part of the question. Everything was dissolving, noise a swimming blur.

" – should go see Tern off. The train will be leaving soon." No. No, I had already said my goodbye, and could not bear to do so again, could not afford to drown in the icy sorrow filling my lungs. Instinctively, my feet began to move, and I turned on my heel, backing towards the seepage of sunlight through the cracks of the entrance to the Justice Building. I had said my goodbye.

"Where are you going?" Away, somewhere, anywhere – my blood gasped for the free air, the salty texture, the open horizon. I kept moving, the words that struggled on my lips failing to form an explanation. "Lark!"

Unable to respond, I wrenched back the door, tumbling into the impossible brightness of the day. The sun blinded me momentarily, reflecting off the window panes and fragments of mica embedded into the cobblestones. Tern was not – might never again be – here. As the scene fragmented with my tears, my feet scrambled down the steps, pushing my limbs into a run. Crossing the square and breaking into the merchant district, my pace accelerated, angling vaguely for the sea. Shops blurred by, confused faces of those who had returned to normality; beached boats and tangled nets, drying for maintenance. Under the pounding of my feet, cobblestones faded to packed gravel, sprouts and moss bushing through, then gravel to aging boardwalks and creaking docks that ended in sand. For a moment, the desperate rush of adrenaline lasted, dragging my ankles through the heavy resistance along the surf, going nowhere but mindlessly forward.

A high running wave swept along the shore, sucking the solidity from my footing, and stumbling, strength diminished, I fell to my knees in miserable exhaustion. Saltwater from the spray of the ocean and my own eyes coated my face; as the tide ebbed and flowed, my body shuddered, shocked and sobbing, the current soaking and tugging at the hem of my dress. Across the houses and shops, a lone whistle sounded, shriller and more painful than any I had ever heard. My parents and sister, I was sure, would soon return home, to worry and to watch obsessively the other reapings, the various broadcasts of odds and predictions, to occupy themselves with a fate they could not control. And alone, I stayed to grieve.

The beach was deserted but for the water and rocks and gulls circling overhead, abandoned by humans for the warmth of dinners and post-reaping celebration, or otherwise the peaceful sailing to the nearby villages that were home. Slowly, the light became dim and slanted, the sun a burning orb that melted into the molten sea. Silent, I watched as the black outline of a ship passed southwards across the skyline.

"I thought I might find you here." I jumped at Cairn's voice, having failed to notice his approach in my own thought and the growing darkness. He lowered himself to sit beside me, allowing the waves to wash over his lap, drenching his clothes. "Your parents are worried sick."

"I just couldn't go to the train station," I confessed. "For that, I'm sorry. The rest just –"

"– happened," Cairn finished. "I know." He paused, hesitantly gauging my expression. "Did you talk to Tern?" I nodded glumly, watching as sand and shell fragments swirled around my legs, and picked a pebble from beneath the surface, fingering it.

"He's going to die, Cairn. He says he can't kill anyone, and he's definitely not a Career." Wrung of emotion and feeling, I felt too empty to procure tears. My voice shook only slightly. "Tern knows – he's going to die. And who's to say he's wrong? He won't come back."

The bitterness came unbidden into my tone. I squeezed my hand tight around the smooth, damp surface of the pebble, and then threw with all my strength out into the water. "He's not coming back!"

Cairn's voice was quiet, but intent. "Lark, stop. Listen to me: Your family needs you." I curled my knees to my chest, looking away as I rocked slowly back and forth, an extension of the constant fluctuation of the water. My eyes closed, bracing for the statement I expected, delivered in an abnormally soft tone. "You have to let him go."

For a moment, a hush fell, the slow breaking of the surf and the jagged rhythm of my breathing the only sounds in the living world. Cairn sighed, and spoke to the dusk. "I'm so sorry. No one deserves this – ever."

"I know," I whispered. Slowly, he got to his feet, offering a hand calloused from rocks and rope, and at my acceptance, gently lifted me up.

"Come on," Cairn said, putting his arm around my shoulders as we sloughed towards shore. "I'll walk you home."

* * *

I tossed and turned fitfully that night, preoccupied with confusion and horror, my dreams haunted by the faces of tributes and victors, the Games. Images of loss, cries of betrayal – and everywhere, Tern's face superimposed – contorted with pain and fear, dead and dying. The morning arrived with a painful jolt, a sensation of reality falling heavily into place. The bed sheets twisted around my legs, I felt the dampness on my cheeks and the searing rawness of my throat, and wondered vaguely if I had been crying. Every muscle clenched with anxiety, I stared at the frayed sunlight on the ceiling and tried to blink away my bleariness, to find the will to acknowledge the day.

As I coaxed myself to my feet, hissing at my stiff limbs and aching bruises, I noticed the hollow silence that had settled over the house – as if no one else dared move or breathe. On investigation, the curled ball that was Sparrow still lay in bed, blankets obscuring all but the crown of her head and a few cold, exposed toes. Carefully, I pulled my sister's quilt down around her feet as she slept, unaware, then turned to pad downstairs, ignoring a sharp pang at the sight of Tern's closed and shuttered room.

The main floor was silent at my arrival, pots and pans piled unwashed in the kitchen, table and chairs unoccupied. A scrap of torn paper explained that my father had already left for the shipyard, and encouraged us not to spend too much time worrying – Tern was safe in the Capitol, at least for now. I searched more thoroughly and found my mother slumped in a wicker rocking chair, head lolling, asleep where she had watched the broadcast in front of our government-issued projector. Though she still wore her modest finery from Reaping Day, some of her sadness and care seemed washed away, a beach cleaned by the tide. I touched her shoulder lightly, testing the depth of her sleep.

She stirred slightly, eyes half open. "Hmm?"

"You overslept," I told her, trying to keep my tone bright. "Where you up late, watching?"

Groggily, my mother nodded. "A reaping recap. So far, they say that Tern has good odds." She glanced around, rubbing a loose strand of hair off her forehead and seeming to note the light and warmth visible outside. "How late did I sleep?"

"A while. The clock said past nine when I checked."

"Mera's probably already opened the apothecary without me," she groaned. Regardless of our turmoil, it was, indeed, a weekday, and my mother should have long since arrived that the storefront she ran with the Thys. She began to move, guilty. "Lark, could you go get Sparrow up, please, and fix some sort of breakfast? If I hurry I could be there in –"

"No," I interrupted. "You're exhausted – you couldn't tell poppy extract from mustard seed."

"Don't be ridiculous –"

"No, Mum, really," I continued, thinking of the summers I had spent working alongside my mother, the hours spent learning herbs and tinctures and poultices. Over the long years in which I had played on the apothecary floor, to more recent seasons spent helping the family business, I had absorbed much of my mother's vast knowledge. "I don't have school, and I usually help anyway. I'll go. Mera and I will be fine for today. Besides," I added, "Sparrow's asleep, and she was pretty shaken yesterday. She'll want you, today."

A brief hesitation, then she relented. "Fine, as long as you're sure. Go get dressed in something decent, and eat before you leave." In the few minutes that it took to grab a respectable tan skirt and blue tunic, a small, cheesecloth package of sea-stained bread and early summer berries appeared on the window sill near the door. I looked to my mother's haze of fatigue, wondering if she had shaken away a measure of her obsession, but again she sat in the eerie, glowing light of the projector, face stained by the images of an arriving train.

"Love you," I whispered, and departed towards the village, the parcel of my breakfast clutched in hand.

As I moved through the already warm air, a moist breeze rising off the water, the plastered cottages and their tin roofs transformed into taller shops of proud brick and stone and wood, and the constant, quiet echo of the waves was overtaken by the babbling trade of the nearby vegetable market. The odor of raw fish and drying seaweed wafted up from the docks, a trademark smell of the District. Exactly as my mother had anticipated, our apothecary was now open, the windows an array of colored glass bottles, potted herbs we had found to be most potent when fresh. I tugged the door open with a small jangle, and Mera Thys, standing behind the long counter, looked up from the various powders she was measuring.

"Lark." Brushing her hands on her apron, she wove around the tables of lotions and soaps, pastes and syrups on display to embrace me gently. A figure of my childhood, Mera was a second mother, another aunt, a close and trusted friend. "How are you holding up?"

Cairn, evidently, had shared how badly I took Tern's reaping. "I'm okay. Mum's taking it poorly, though – she can't seem to stop watching. And Sparrow's pretty upset, too." I couldn't restrain my sigh. "Anyway, that's why it's just me today."

"I understand," said Mera, and squeezed my shoulders compassionately. Deep bruises throbbing, I yelped, then grimaced at her reproving stare. "Lark, what did you do this time? Climbing, again?"

I shook my head, amused by her disapproval. "No, Peacekeepers – I wasn't very compliant, yesterday."

"You and Cairn!" she scolded. "It's always one of you."

"Or both," I agreed.

"Or both." Mera smiled. "I'll make you a compress for that – just bruises?" Thankful, I nodded, and as she bustled to collect the necessary herbs, I took over the project she had abandoned, continuing to mix the aromatic lavender and chamomile – someone's treatment for sleeplessness or stress. The irony was almost laughable, I thought, shuffling the dried leaves with a slender spoon. Anxiety, insomnia – the symptoms of the reaping, the impending Games. And my mind drifted again to Tern, as it so often had over the past hours. Where was he now? Had the Capitol changed him yet, already beyond return?

"You look lost." Mera returned to my side, crushing ingredients into a paste, and the spicy bite of ginger filled the air, accented by dandelion and hops. I realized that my hand had stopped moving, poised motionless above the steel bowl, and that I stared aimlessly out the apothecary window at the passersby. Reality was distant, as though water had filled my ears.

"I keep thinking about him – wondering what he's doing, where he is. It's the parade, the opening ceremony, today, isn't it?"

Mera gave a gentle mumble of assent. "This evening, yes. You know," she continued, adding a thin trickle of oil to the gummy mixture, sniffing to check proportion and quantity, "I think there might be an old projector and screen in storage, here – from when they used to distribute them to businesses." By the law of Panem, it was required that all facilities open to the public provide a display of the Hunger Games, though during my lifetime, this had become mostly a technicality: rarely would a Peacekeeper bother to check, even more rarely would a business owner be fined. If not occupied at sea, citizens of District 4 watched via the official displays of the town square, or in the privacy of their own homes.

"We could put it up, if you like," Mera offered. "Maybe it would help to know how Tern's doing?" It might be easier to watch reality than to suffer the imagined scenarios of blood and broken hopes and unknown endings. Moisture condensed in my eyes as I mentally projected Tern's fate unfolding before my powerless eyes – or worse, beyond my sight, news to be broken by the condolences of strangers.

"Thank you," I told her quietly. "I'd like that very much."

Reading the genuine gratitude in my expression, Mera nodded and scrapped the poultice for my bruises into a glass jar. "We'll apply that during lunch break, so that it has time to soak in. Now –" She fumbled to extract a key from her pocket. "– go into the back room, and see if you can find that projector. Try to the left, on top of the wood cabinets. Get some extract of thyme, while you're there, and watch the dust."

It was as Mera said, and when I returned a few minutes later, arms loaded with the silvery projector and old canvas screen, glass bottle of thyme balanced precariously on top, my eyes streamed from the years' worth of grit I had also found. Using a pair of brackets that usually held a collection of hanging plants, I rigged up a rather haphazard display, tying a Lorry knot to hold the supporting twine taunt and draping the cloth over it. Situating the projector on an abandoned stool, I flipped the switch, testing my luck. Miraculously, even after years of neglect, the voice of a commentator and the blurred color of the broadcast streamed out. A moment of twiddling dials, and the image cleared.

"– some exclusive footage of this year's tributes receiving their makeovers!" A voice, unmistakably Caesar's gleeful boom, introduced the feature. The prideful expressions of the upper districts, the terrified and calculating eyes of District 3 as they received shaves and haircuts and baths in mysterious liquids. A shot of Oarna glaring at a stylist, who dragged a brush through her curls. Then finally, Tern – his eyes weary but mouth hosting a reluctant smile. The familiar messy mop brown had been trimmed short and spikey, and the stubble that usually gripped his jaw bone was scrubbed away. Suddenly, I wished I could cup the projected light in my hands, hold my brother safe, however different and unreachable, in this moment.

Tern dissolved into the hesitant expressions of the tributes from District 5 and Caesar's babbling about light, power, hypothetical costume choices. My attention wavered, and after adjusting the volume, I wandered back to the counter, determined to do some modicum of work. Chatting peaceably, Mera dispensed tea and instructions to an elderly female customer.

" – try to get her to drink at least two cups a day," she said, passing a tin of herbs and a stack of cheesecloth packets to the wrinkled hands. "I know it's harder during the Games, and not much besides – well, not much really works, but this is the best I can offer. It should help some." I slunk through the swinging panel of wood and discretely moved to stand behind Mera, trying to avoid notice, aware of my new status as a social pariah. The woman stretched a white-haired head to follow my path and mumbled something to Mera, a phrase full of slurred words that I could not understand. A gesture in my direction.

Mera interpreted, moving to expose me. "Yes, that's Lark – Tern's sister. We decided to put up the projector, today," she added. "I thought it might help a bit to watch." The lined face, long darkened by sun, gave a closed-mouth smile, and somewhat sadly, reached up to gently brush my cheek, fingers calloused. Startled by the touch, I jerked away. Mera stifled a laugh, amused. Seeming sympathetic, the woman babbled again in my direction. Quietly shaking her head, she turned to leave, the door tinkling shut behind her.

My bewildered, uncertain expression turned on Mera. "Who was that? And what did she say to me?"

"That's Mags," sighed Mera. "Another District 4 victor, probably the oldest alive in Panem." Her expression was thoughtful, grieved. "Mags said she's sorry. She said that sometimes, knowledge is the only comfort that we have."

* * *

_A/N - Anyone catch the allusion to Finnick and Annie? Chapter Six will be up soon!_


	7. Chapter Six - Blake's Hitch

_A/N - Sorry for the wait, everyone. I stalled while writing my first fight scene (not in this chapter, unfortunately) and haven't had time to edit. But here it is, the long anticipated chapter six. Enjoy, and please review - or just drop me a note._

* * *

_Chapter Six_ – _Blake's Hitch_

We left the projector on, let the mind-numbing preparations of cloth and make-up, nervous tributes and emphatic stylists, seep into the earthy scent of the apothecary. My heart leapt at the brief glimpses of Tern as a team of bright-haired assistants scrubbed away all evidence of the sea, stripping away the caking of salt and the quiet humility of the brother I knew.

As the sun began to dip on the horizon, blinding rays sweeping down the streets and pooling on the step, the white sails of fishing boats arrived to anchor in the harbor, and the Capitol broadcast cut away from parade preparations to gossiping announcers, aiming to keep the costumes a surprise. Disgusted with their banter, Mera eventually fumbled through the buttons and switched the television off.

"Why don't you go home early?" she suggested. "I'll stay here for a while, for the evening customers – there shouldn't be many, tonight."

"Are you sure?" I was hesitant to arrive late and leave early.

"Go home, Lark," Mera said firmly. "Spend some time with your family, and get some sleep, if you can. I'll see you tomorrow."

Convinced, I slipped from the shop into the growing throngs of workers now homeward bound. Around me, women carrying baskets of vegetables and bread parted with sympathetic murmurs; sailors hauling frayed ropes and nets of wide-eyed fish refused to look my direction. The sacrifice of my brother had made me an outcast, even among those of District 4.

"Lark!" I whipped around, searching for a familiar face in the crowd. An older fisherman knocked into me and swore, clutching a sling of cod and bottle of clear liquor. He drew a breath to begin a scolding tirade, then stopped with a glance at my face and sunk huffily back into the thicket of bodies. Apparently, I was bad luck. "Lark!"

Cairn's tanned height and concerned green eyes emerged out of a group of anglers returning from the docks. I paused, waiting as he wove his way to my side. Panting, he greeted me. "How are you doing?"

We fell into step, the rhythm easy and habitual. "Not bad."

His expression was skeptical.

"Well, it could be worse, anyway." I summarized my day for him, briefly – my mother's desperation, Mera's kindness, Mags. And Tern. "He looks so different, Cairn, so sad. They cut his hair, and every time I see him, his eyes look guarded, closed off. But I guess you'll see, later." I stopped, struck by a realization. "By the way, where are you going? We're nearly past your house, now."

He laughed, snatching my arm and pulling me forward. "You're so distracted. I was planning on watching the opening ceremony with you, and then going home to eat. I thought you could use the moral support."

"Thanks," I told him. "Really. I appreciate it." The houses began to thin, larger gardens and grassy fields appearing as we reached the edge of town. "Don't be silly about dinner, though," I countered in an afterthought. "We'll feed you."

Cairn automatically protested. "No, I don't mean to be a burden on –"

I elbowed him gently. "Shove it, Cairn – it's fine. You can stay as long as you like." He pushed me jokingly in response, and together we stumbled up the path to the chipped blue paint of the door. As we slid inside, depositing our sandals in a pile on the step, the aroma of fresh bread and fish stew greeted us – evidence of my mother's productivity, proof that she was not entirely consumed by despair.

The sounds of a broadcast emanated from the sitting room.

"I'm home, Mum!" As I stepped over the threshold, she glanced up from the simmering pot, face flushed from steam and the midsummer heat.

Her reply was tinged with guilt. "How was the day, love? Did everything go alright, with Mera?" I assented with a nod, and she spotted Cairn lingering behind me. "Hello, Cairn. I didn't expect to see you this evening."

"I thought I'd watch the parade with Lark tonight," he explained and added, "I don't want to be a bother, though. I'll wait to eat until I get home."

"Nonsense. You've been working all day; you must be hungry. You're always welcome, and I expect Lark's already told you that. Besides," she added, sadness creeping into her tone, "I made five servings, anyway, on accident."

At her words, my breath knotted in my throat – of course she had made five; it was natural, routine. Tern was always home for the evening meal.

Cairn shuffled awkwardly, as my mother blinked hard, rubbing her nose rather aimlessly and turning her face away. She eventually continued, voice thick, watery. "Sparrow and your father are in the sitting room watching the television, if you'd like to join them. I'll bring your soup in there."

I nudged Cairn towards our side room and the distant monologue of the commentators. "Come on."

* * *

Sparrow sat in my father's lap, leaning her cheek into his shoulder as they shared one of the two wicker chairs situated in front of the projector's display. I stooped as I entered the room, wrapping my arms around the both of them and eyeing the moving image where Caesar's shock of violet hair dominated the screen.

"What have they been saying?"

"Not much," my father said, gaze riveted to the announcers. "Nothing worthwhile, really – mostly talk about the costumes and the stylists that are working this year.

Cairn asked the question lingering on my lips. "And Tern?"

"Haven't actually seen him. He got a mediocre stylist, according to Caesar." He shrugged, and shifted Sparrow slightly, moving her weight to his other leg. "Budge up there Sparrow; my leg's going to sleep. We've been watching a while, and the best I can tell, every tribute from District 4 for the past twenty years has been a fish, and the year before that was a piece of seaweed."

My attempted laugh came out shaky with nerves.

"Well, at least we know what to expect, then." Cairn had settled himself on the bench adjacent to their chair, and I joined him. In the lull of the conversation, the fluctuating laughter and speculation of the broadcast grew to fill the silence, punctuated only by the mumbled thanks when my mother delivered a tray laden with dinner, the short creak of complaint as she claimed the remaining chair, and the chink of metal on ceramic as we brought soup to our mouths. And then finally, finally –

"Now for the moment we've all been waiting for – the parade, the opening ceremony, the beginning of the 72nd annual Hunger Games!" The camera shifted to a massive gleaming avenue lined by the sickening enthusiasm of Capitol spectators, the collective chatter bright and amplified.

"The tributes are lined up, they're mounting the chariots, and… They're off! Here comes District 1, everyone, District 1, tributes Dia Phiron and Feldspar Krouse! And look at those costume – what gorgeous jewels –" The pair was clad entirely in glittering crystals, the hulking male shining as if encased in glass, the girl's auburn locks speckled with gold and faceted quartz that threw spots of light as she waved to the crowd. Next was District 2 with stony, dangerous expressions, identified by Caesar as Ramite Sanders and Alexus Elbell.

"Oh, how combative!" Caesar exclaimed, observing the bodies toned by years of training, the steel breastplates and stylized chainmail. "And look at District 3 – Is that…wire?" Some mildly ingenious stylist had fabricated metal bodysuits of coppery wire, complete with a halo of flashing, colored lights.

As I held my breath, lowering my bowl to the floor with shaking hands, the fourth chariot appeared.

"District 4, ladies and gentlemen, District 4! Our tributes Oarna Star and Tern Sideon – and what is District 4 this year?" Polished and buffed to perfection, the tributes were clothed in tight silver bodysuits that glinted like scales. A long dorsal fin ran down the length of their spines, and thick, wing-like patches connected their arms to their bodies, a ridiculous look perfected by the sequined flippers covering their feet. "Yes, they're fish, of course, but are those – wings?"

"Flying fish, Caesar," Cairn said through gritted teeth. "Flying fish." His irritation at the poor rendition was palpable, even though flying fish were rare, nearly mythical, in District 4. Yet my focus was elsewhere – on Tern's white-knuckled grip on the rim of the chariot; on the falsity, the fearfulness of his smile; on the resigned dullness of his stare.

Hopeless.

Tern vanished into the appearance of the sorry-looking tributes from District 5, and some sort of dam broke in our small sitting room as we exhaled to talk and cry and laugh hollowly, our voices overlapping messily.

"His face, did you see his face?"

"Flying fish, seriously, they can't possibly –"

"– the hair, I almost didn't –"

"Mum, he looked so scared," Sparrow sobbed. "I don't wanna wait, I want him to come home now. It's – it's not fair." My father stroked her hair, making a hushing noise.

"We all do," my mother said, restraining her own tears. "Sweetheart, we all do."

"Do you think they like him?" Cairn asked me in an undertone.

I took a deep breath, then let it out, uncertain. "The Capitol? I don't know, Cairn. I mean, the costume was horrible, but he seemed to do everything right – smile, wave, act like he actually wanted to be there – and that seemed okay. But honestly? I don't know."

"You're probably right," he agreed. "He's not a Career, or a volunteer, and even the Capitol has to have noticed that. He's got other advantages, though," Cairn added thoughtfully. "Finnick, for example. And it has to help that Tern himself is pretty attractive."

I stared at him.

"Come it off, Lark. I don't mean it in a weird way, but it's true – remarkable that he doesn't have a girlfriend, actually. Didn't you ever notice?"

Shaking my head, I was a little bit indignant. I had never considered the effect of Tern's tanned skin and large green eyes, the aristocratic nose and quirky half-smile. "He's my brother. You just don't think about that sort of thing."

"You're clueless. Haven't you seen how the girls look at him?"

"No, of course not," I shot back. "How attractive are your sisters? Ebbie's almost twelve, and she's lovely. Beautiful curly hair, those freckles –"

He laughed. "Fine, fine – you win. It'll help, though. We should be grateful for that, anyway." This way of speaking felt hopeful – as if Tern hadn't already resigned himself to dying.

"I hope so," I said. "I really hope that you're right."

The final chariot swept from the boulevard, the unfortunate tributes from District 12 wearing scarcely any more than coal dust, and was replaced by the faces of the bubbling commentators. My mother stretched rather stiffly, and then set about gathering the remains of dinner. I sank back next to Cairn, glassily watching Caesar's glitzy purple suit and the tables of betting odds that had begun to flash across the screen. As I allowed myself to relax further onto the bench, a wave of exhaustion, of equal stress and relief, washed over me.

"Let's look at this behind-the-scenes footage of the tributes mounting the chariots – is that an alliance we see forming between Districts 9 and 11?" A weight settled on my eyelids, and I blinked it away wearily, determined to stay awake, yet more and more time seemed to pass between the slide shut and the sudden jerk open. To my ears, the commentary had become loose and fragmented, disjointedly leaping between topics: "– human solar cell, probably one of the more creative this year – looks strong. He could probably handle a weapon, maybe a – not a chance, not at all –"

I slumped involuntarily sideways, my head contacting with something unexpectedly tall and hard. Bleary, I reached to rub my eyes. "Sorry."

But a hand brushed my fingers away from my face, easing my head back down. "Shh," a voice laughed quietly. "You're fine. I've got you."

Too tired to question, I leaned into the warmth and felt an arm extend a gentle, protective length around my shoulders. The noise faded to a gray blur, the sounds of a soft chuckle and shuffling footsteps disappearing as I descended comfortably into sleep.

* * *

The dawn reflected in golden smears on the ocean, throwing giant shimmering rays back onto the white-washed buildings and small gardens of District 4. I awoke with a slow stiffness, shifting to rub the residue of sleep from my eyes. Alone in the half-light of the sitting room, I slumped in front of the now-dark projector, the world a tired blur of uncertainty.

Somewhere in the kitchen a quick set of footsteps moved. A door swung open with a reluctant creak, then hurriedly snapped shut. As I swallowed a yawn, it vaguely registered that this was the sound of someone leaving the house, hours earlier than was necessary for any sort of work. Above I could hear the rustling shift of mattresses and blankets, the rhythmic grumble of my father's snore, and wondered driftingly why I was still propped on the wooden bench instead of burrowed under the warm weight of my quilt upstairs. With a weary hand, I swept the loose wisps of hair from my forehead and rubbed a small numb spot on my right cheek.

And froze.

As I touched the patch over my cheekbone, it didn't have the smooth, salt-softened texture of skin, but rather the ridges and bumps and gentle weavings of cloth, perhaps an old fishing jacket. Somewhere on the edge of my consciousness, the events of the previous night began to seep into the morning. On an impulse, I lowered my hand and tentatively slid it across the fabric seat beside me.

It was still warm.

"Cairn," I breathed, suddenly comprehending. "Cairn, thank you."

* * *

_A/N - And there we have it, lots of suspense and the tribute parade. Interview next chapter!_


	8. Chapter Seven - Prusik Knot

_A/N - And after a long pause, I'm back. (I've been learning how to write fight scenes which - while not in this chapter - were new to me, and a fun challenge.) I own nothing._

* * *

_Chapter Seven – Prusik Knot_

We fell into a pattern of wandering existence, a half-life revolving around the images of Tern that flickered across the screen. I continued to work at the apothecary, and in an effort of normalcy my mother joined our glum spectatorship, trailing in late and weary-eyed, with Sparrow dragging at her heels. Meanwhile, my father sloughed through the work of sails and wind and navigation, returning dulled with exhaustion and uninformed worry. Time slowed, caught in the friction of our anxiety.

The footage of the training center burst to life early Wednesday, causing me to stumble as my eyes drifted to the screen to the clump of tributes where they had gathered in the center of a gleaming gymnasium. In their midst, a trainer's lips moved soundlessly in recitation of rules, drowned out by Caesar's excited narration:

"Another day of the 72nd annual Hunger Games, another chance to see our tributes – and there they are, ready to start training. Just reviewing the rules, a reminder that there's no fighting between tributes – not yet, anyway – and off they go!"

As the tributes thinned and scattered to various training stations, traveling individually or loosely paired by district, the televised display split into its usual configuration – half a generalized broadcast, tracking the most engaging characters and interesting situations, half a sequence following only those from our home district. It was then, for the first time that morning, that I was able to see Tern as he wandered from the crowd, ignoring Oarna when she split away and threw him a disdainful, impatient glance over her shoulder. His face was a mask of nervous bemusement, and he spun slowly in place to survey his options – targets and blades, plants and various obstacles, a gurgling artificial stream and –

Suddenly indecision fell away, and Tern strode off purposefully, a bizarre spring of confidence in his step. I craned my neck in an anxious attempt to follow his path, bewildered by the change. Only when the rope appeared between my brother's fingers did his destination become clear.

Crouching among the coils and rods of the knot tying station, Tern seemed to seep into the rope, to forget his situation and himself. A hesitant bowline knot appeared on the line, then disintegrated and progressed to a double surgeon's loop, a sheepshank, a stevedore's knot. The camera lingered for a moment on the self-assured focus in Tern's face, the natural fluidity as the rope twirled and cinched in his hands, and the trainer, with an expression of mingled surprise and approval, leaned in to discuss cleat and wharf ties. The obvious pleasure in their voices tugged a smile to my lips, watching two masters at work.

A jolting switch – a dull thunk and a trident embedded into the heart of the target, quivering as my brother's face was lost to Oarna's vicious grin. I turned away, suddenly sickened, and caught Mera's probing gaze.

"What do think, so far?"

"He's safe, he's – he's happy, I guess," I managed, still trying to shake away the image of Oarna's trident, the metallic glint as it sliced into the dummy. "That's something."

Mera merely grimaced and shared a half-glance with my mother, who had paused to watch, with mortar and pedestal in hand. Sparrow clutched at her waist. "Finnick isn't going to be pleased."

"He's – why? I though Tern was doing alright."

My mother laughed bitterly as she resumed grinding the cloves, but it was Mera who answered. "Lark, if you were a Career, would knot-tying impress you? Would you be intimidated, would you want him in your alliance?"

"Maybe." I heard the stubborn, hopeless loyalty in my voice. "Maybe, if he-"

"No, you wouldn't," my mother corrected, little more than a breath.

"But if-"

"You wouldn't, Lark," she repeated wearily. "It's sad. It's cruel, even, but honestly – if he keeps tying knots, they won't pick him."

My mother sighed, loosing Sparrow's grip to shake the powdered clove into a jar and to reach for a sheet of drying ginger. "Your aunt Lune always said that if a non-Career is reaped from a Career district, their best chance is to pretend – learn to look dangerous, join the Career pack. Finnick knows that – that Tern doesn't stand a chance by himself. Finnick will have taught him something, some sort of skill or weapon, and he'll have told Tern to join the Careers – and to make the Careers want him. Tying knots won't do that."

There was a strange, glittering sheen to my mother's eyes that lodged the argument in my throat. I averted my gaze to the floor, allowing Sparrow to ask the next question.

"What'll Finnick teach him?"

An answer was provided sooner than we might have expected.

Tern vanished to the un-televised midday meal after a morning spent primarily at knot-tying and a cluster of other, largely deserted survival stations – snares and animal tracking, plant identification and water purification. An hour later, he stumbled back into the gymnasium, slightly later than the main jostle of tributes with ears glowing red and face contorted into a distinct frown. Throwing a glance of misery and irritation at the closing door, Tern tramped away from his friendly haunts of the morning and towards a more combative region of the training room, arrayed with displays of broadswords and coils of replacement bow string. Tentatively, he halted alongside a rack of spears, looking warily down the row of targets.

"What are you waiting for?" The male tribute stood behind Tern, leaning jauntily on a poled weapon with an axe-like blade and a multipronged pike attached to its head – a halberd, Caesar had called it. Tern jumped slightly, having not heard his approach, and the tribute smirked. "Go on."

I watched with bated breath as my brother swallowed hard, carefully selected a spear of medium length and rolled it between his hands, testing the balance and the weight. And then, with surprising finesse, he griped the shaft and launched the spear forward. The head imbedded soundly in the inner circle of the target, the shaft oscillating from the force of impact.

Tern's lip twitched with a thin smile of victory.

"Nice," the tribute agreed, his smirk fading into an easy, charismatic grin. "Very nice. Not quite dead center - not a ten, but definitely a solid nine." Leaning the halberd on his shoulder, he offered a handshake. "Name's Alexus Elbell," he said, as Tern returned his grasp. "District 2. And you're from – ?"

"District 4, Tern Sideon. Nice to meet you."

"Same. A Career district, isn't it?" Tern made a noncommittal sound in his throat, and Alexus continued, nonchalant. "My district partner and I were looking at setting up the usual Career alliance – you know, Districts 1, 2, and 4. You interested?"

"Sure," Tern said, selecting a second spear, and were it not for the nearly imperceptible constriction of his voice, the alliance between mercenaries could have passed for ordinary conversation. "I don't know about my district mate, though, she's –" He paused, mulling over his words.

"A complete bitch?" provided Alexus.

Tern snorted mirthlessly. "You don't know the half of it."

"Oarna, right? Piece of work," Alexus said, shaking his head. "I've talked to her, invited her to join the alliance. She agreed – eventually."

"Figures," my brother replied. "Anyway, thanks for that."

"And what about it?" prompted Alexus. "You in?"

"Yeah," Tern said, hesitating only slightly as he shot a half-glance at the door. "Yeah, I'm in."

* * *

"And there you go," said Mera, as the cameras faded away from Tern. "Finnick taught him spears, told him to get in with the Career alliance – and he did."

I crushed a handful of sage with unwarranted venom, as my mother responded. "Ordered him, more like." She sighed. "Well, it gives him a chance."

"I don't like Alexus," Sparrow pouted. "He's mean. Why's Tern making friends like that?"

Mera concealed her wince. "He's doing what he has to do. At least he's convincing."

And although he only played the role laid out for him, Tern seemed marvelously believable, meandering with the newly solidified Career alliance through the evening and next day of training. Ability with spears already proven, Tern demonstrated his more than capable knife skills, honed from years of gutting fish, and gradually developed an aptitude for hand-to-hand combat – a few of his techniques, my mother observed, were reminiscent of Finnick. But dead clumsy, with lanky, easily knotted limbs, Tern revealed an obvious weakness in agility, and a simple drill of simultaneously running and throwing spears brought him crashing to the ground in an awkward heap.

"Ouch," commented Cairn, having joined our subdued group in front of the apothecary screen for the hour overlapping the arrival of ships and the closing of the district's shops. "That had to hurt."

He watched as Tern clambered to his feet with a bright flush, as the trainer rolled his eyes in impatience, as Alexus and Dia, the District 1 female, snickered unabashedly. "The Careers don't seem to like him much, do they?"

I considered the question briefly and shrugged. "I think that they like him as much as anyone in the alliance – they just don't like anyone much. That," I added in an afterthought, "and that he's different strategically. Defensive, not offensive."

This method in addition to whatever coaching and supplementary advice Finnick had provided seemed to be enough. At the end of two days, Tern scrapped an eight in his private training session, gaining the positive odds and potential sponsors that followed. Huddled in District 4, we held our breath as we anticipated the interviews and what would come after.

* * *

"Ladies and gentlemen, ladies and gentlemen! Good evening, and welcome to tonight's event in the 72nd annual hunger games!"

Caesar's voice boomed out of our home projector. On Saturday, my family had crammed into the sitting room with the majority of the Thys, so tightly packed that when Cairn and I settled onto the floor with Ebbie and Sparrow, our knees touched slightly.

Aunt Lune was conspicuously absent.

"Our interviews with each of the tributes are about to begin – three minutes each, folks, and what we can learn about their personalities in that time! And…here they come! Ladies and gentlemen, the tributes of the 72nd hunger games – let's give them a warm welcome!"

Caesar began the thunderstorm of applause, a cacophony of pounding and cheering as the tributes filed onto the stage in district order, alternating girl and boy. The camera flickered over each face in turn as they mounted the stage, faced the greeting of bright lights and roaring sound. The auburn-haired girl from District 1 smiled seductively and swished a train of pale gold silk, while her male counterpart merely gave a slow, dull blink. With a grin that more resembled a leer, Rami strode across in lapis blue, followed by Alexus, whose beady eyes swept the crowd, seemingly in calculation. The scrawny pair from District 3 seemed terrified, barely managing a shuffle. My eyes skimmed across Oarna and her permanently irritated expression, anticipating the appearance of my brother, the eighth tribute.

Tern stumbled slightly on the step as he entered, drawing a laugh from the Capitol audience and an undisguised groan from the cluster around our projector. Passing off the motion with sheepish grin, my brother straightened to reveal a dark grey suit, paired with a white shirt and a tie that glimmered as though it captured slice of the sea. A portion of his face and neck were plastered in sliver scales.

"Part fish," muttered Cairn. "Brilliant."

I jabbed him with an elbow almost absentmindedly.

The teens from District 5 appeared pinched, matching in outfits of sunshine yellow. The ensemble, with few exceptions, grew progressively more timid, and when a skinny boy from District 12 completed the twenty-four, the applause diminished into speculative mumurs, then silence.

"And now let's meet the lovely Dia Phiron, female tribute from District 1!"

Her stylists had ensured that lovely was an understatement, and true to her appearance, Dia choose an approach that balanced between alluring and subtly dangerous. The district's male tribute, who Caesar addressed by the nickname Spar, had, in contrast, the charisma of a blunt, brutal boulder.

My interest wandered from the District 2 tributes, and I watched vaguely as Ebbie and Sparrow played a quiet clapping game, only half listening.

"…never know what hit them." Oarna's grin shone blindingly – someone had whitened her teeth.

"I'm sure they won't," nodded Caesar. "Well, thank you, Oarna, and best of luck!" Polite applause followed her from the seat of prominence. "Next, also from District 4, our male tribute – Tern Sideon!"

The audience roared in greeting as Tern approached the edge of the stage, squinting briefly at the spotlight, then smiling nervously at the multitude. Caesar greeted his anxiety with a hearty chuckle and a measure of his own applause, vigorously clapping his lilac-tipped fingers.

"Sit down, sit down." As though his knees had given out, my brother dropped heavily into the indicated chair.

"Now," Caesar continued, allowing the crowd to sink into silence, "you're a very interesting tribute, Tern, very interesting. We've watched you come from District 4 and prove yourself in training – but you didn't volunteer. How did you feel about being reaped?"

Tern swallowed hard and plastered his smile more thoroughly to his face. "Well, it was luck of the draw, wasn't it? I was nervous, to be honest – and aren't we all, at least a bit?" The audience tittered, and Tern leaned towards Caesar, lowering his voice and lying blatantly. "I was confident, too, though, because this is something that I've been training for."

In our sitting room, Ebbie and Sparrow had stopped playing, and a stunned silence hung in the air.

Caesar, however, was unfazed. "True, true," he beamed. "You come from a family of victors, after all! Now, Tern," Caesar continued, "you have a very famous aunt, Lune Tiller, victor of the 52nd Hunger Games, and a very famous mentor, Finnick Odair."

An audible sigh from the audience.

"Yes, that's right, ladies, the famous Finnick Odair. Tell me, Tern – how have they helped you prepare for this? What advice have they given you?"

"Aunt Lune always says that courage and determination are just as important as skill." Which wasn't necessarily untrue. Lune had frequently insisted something similar, though hardly in this context. "And Finnick, as a mentor, reminds me to play to my strengths. Good advice, no?"

I wondered if the Capitol audience detected the touch of bitter irony in his tone.

"Yes, absolutely," his interviewer agreed, nodding. "Can I ask you a bit about life back home?" Tern gave a noncommittal shrug, which Caesar took for permission to plow on.

"I'm curious, Tern: a handsome young man like you – yes, ladies, isn't he good looking?" A pause as the audience cheered. "Do you have someone special back home? Someone you're going to win for?"

For the first time that evening, Tern's composure slipped, and he stuttered a reply. "I'm not – I wasn't involved with anyone…" The silence was expectant, and my brother tried again. "There's no one – special – I mean, family, friends, but…"

Caesar rescued him, bemused. "Nothing to lose, nothing to lose, but I fully understand…" He glanced at a periwinkle watch. "A final question, Tern. You've been in the Capitol for a few days now, and you obviously must find it different from home. What do you miss most about District 4?"

"I miss my family," confessed Tern, and I heard my mother sniffle softly. Sparrow grasped my hand. "Particularly my two younger sisters. I miss the sea – the smell of the salt, the sound of the waves." He turned, speaking directly to the audience. "These are things that I'll never be able to forget, and I hope I'll be able to go home to them – soon."

"And I'm sure you will." A buzzer sounded. "Ladies and gentlemen, Tern Sideon!" He retreated from the limelight, from the view of the cameras, and I could hear a weary sigh of relief as he sank into his chair. As the female from District 5 shyly acknowledged the crowd, I realized that Tern would enter the arena before I next heard his voice.

* * *

_A/N - On that interesting note, we take our leave. Next up is the arena, and as Chapter Eight is almost, almost done, I promise to update soon. Reviews? Comments? Suggestions?_


	9. Chapter Eight - Strangle Knot

_A/N - Less than a week since my last update! Aren't you proud of me? Per usual, I own nothing._

* * *

_Chapter Eight – Strangle Knot_

_Thirty seconds._ Arranged in a perfectly even circle, the tributes stood on raised platforms, rooted where only moments before they had emerged from the ground. Several blinked rapidly, blinded by the sudden sunlight.

_Twenty-nine seconds. _The ground around the platforms was damp and grassy, riddled with potholes. Heads swiveled to assess the terrain: a flat and marshy expanse in one direction, a damp forest in the other with moss hanging from the trees – a swamp.

_Twenty-eight seconds. Twenty-seven._ My eyes found Tern where he stood in the alternation of male and female tributes, dressed in the outfit that Caesar had previously described – a rain jacket, nylon pants, and waterproof boots, the reasons for which were clear now. His face pale, his green eyes flickered between his fellow tributes, the landscape, and the sky.

_Twenty-six seconds. Twenty-five. Twenty-four._ The cornucopia loomed in the center of their circle, a vast structure of corrugated sheet metal. Weapons and supplies extended towards the tributes in long spokes, radiating from the mouth of the cornucopia – dangerous and more valuable near the mouth, but a variety of backpacks and a few simple blades scattered closer to the tributes.

_Twenty-three seconds._ A rack of spears glimmered; beside them, a selection of knives and broadswords gleamed. Oarna's gaze was fixated on a trident leaned casually next to a scythe and a halberd.

_Twenty-two seconds. Twenty-one. _ Brief moments of eye contact, hesitant glances shot between allies acted as confirmations of loyalty. Alexus caught Tern's eye and gave an affirmative nod.

_Twenty seconds._ The girl from District 9 cried silently, the tear tracks on her cheeks glistening in the morning sun. While the Careers ogled the bounty of the cornucopia, the pair from District 6 turned slowly in place, preparing for the dash to the tree line.

_Nineteen. Eighteen. Seventeen. Sixteen seconds._ Plans finalized, tense with anticipation and anxiety, now the tributes could only wait.

_Fifteen seconds. Fourteen seconds. Thirteen._ As I listened to the voice of Claudius Templesmith boom the countdown, I realized I was holding my breath. In the town square of District 4, where I stood shoulder to shoulder with Cairn, a suffocating silence had settled over the crowd. I tried to exhale, to force my diaphragm to unclench, but in vain.

_Twelve seconds. Eleven. Ten._ These were, perhaps, the longest thirty seconds of my life.

_Nine. Eight. Seven. Six._ Tern's hands trembled, the carrick knot bracelet sliding further down his wrist, yet his face appeared resolute.

_Five seconds. Four seconds._ The tributes tensed, leaning forward.

_Three. Two. One._

"Ladies and Gentlemen," Claudius said calmly, "let the 72nd annual Hunger Games begin, and may the odds be ever in your favor!" A gong struck, clear and cold, and the circle of tributes burst into motion.

Tern lunged off of the pedestal, and recovering from an awkward landing, sprinted towards the mouth of the cornucopia. The ground squelched and sucked with each step, grasses giving way to muddy puddles as he pounded around backpacks and piles of supplies. Clambering over a final crate to reach the array of weaponry, Tern paused before the rack of spears, uncertain. Behind him, Dia skidded, nearly falling as she snagged a bladed whip, and returned to the fray. Alexus snatched the halberd, shouting over his shoulder at Tern.

"What the hell are you doing? Get a weapon and go!"

Yanking a spear from the rack, he complied and turned to the predictable chaos of the bloodbath, where unarmed tributes raced for supplies while Careers carried out a merciless slaughter. A short distance away, Oarna fought the male tribute from District 11 – Croft, Caesar had said and obstructed his path away from the cornucopia. Wielding a sickle and a backpack, he blocked her jabs, teeth gritted in concentration. Oarna merely laughed and twirled the trident as she goaded him:

"Is that the best you can do?"

With a snarl, he swung the backpack into her stomach, knocking her to the ground. Oarna gasped for air, mouth working frantically – a fish out of water. The trident had skittered from her grip as she fell. Croft vindictively kicked her ribs and bent to draw the blade of the sickle across her throat. A simple slicing motion made Oarna's final breath a gurgle.

The crowd gathered in the square of District 4 gave a quiet moan – the first Career tribute down, one of our own killed. In the flank of the crowd, a young boy – blonde, curly haired, with hard brown eyes – stifled a sob. The screen flashed black momentarily as the cameras shifted to Tern, and panic rose in my chest.

A gasp escaped me. "Tern – no – what are you doing?"

Tern rushed from the shadow of the cornucopia, swerving around the box of provisions that separated him from the fight. He halted before the boy from District 11, raised the spear in challenge. Without straightening, Croft swiped at Tern's midsection. I held my breath, watching as my brother blocked the blow with the shaft of the spear. Tern countered with a jab towards the torso of his adversary. Dodging the spear, Croft swung a second time and slashed a long line across Tern's face. He yelped, reeled backwards.

I clenched my fists, nails biting into the palms of my hands.

Croft took advantage of the momentary distraction, striking the spear with deliberate power. Wrenched from Tern's grip, the weapon sailed out of reach. Suddenly, he was disarmed, vulnerable.

The sickle glinted through the air, and Tern punched hard to the shoulder. Croft swore in pain, reflexively dropping the blade on to the wet grass, where it slid away. They were even.

For the merest second, the two young men paused to eye each other.

Croft dove into Tern, momentum driving them to the ground. Pinned under one knee, Tern struggled as thick hands closed around his throat, reddening as the air faded from his lungs. I began to close my eyes, unwilling to watch the end.

There was a dull thud. Croft's grip loosened, and he slumped unexpectedly forward, eyes rolling back into his head, a knife protruding from his back.

With significant effort, Tern pushed off the body, coughing slightly and glancing up to where Rami grinned, the broadsword in her hand twirling in lazy circles.

"Okay?"

"Fine." Tern fingered the cut across his left cheek and temple, grimacing at the blood that dripped onto his palm. "You didn't need to do that, you know. I had it handled." It was impossible to tell whether or not he was joking.

Rami rolled her eyes. The knife made a small sucking sound as she pulled it from Croft's back and unconcernedly wiped the blood on Oarna's jacket. "Right."

"I figure we have a first-aid kit somewhere?" Tern asked as he stood and stooped to retrieve the spear, following Rami towards the mouth of the cornucopia. The cluster of allied tributes stood distributing supplies, selecting favorite weapons, deciding on a location for camp.

"We're Careers," she reminded him. "We have everything."

As the crowd broke into chatter, speculation, nervous laughter, a great wave of relief washed through me. Tern had survived.

"Are you alright?" Cairn's touch on my arm was light, hesitant.

"I'm fine – better than fine, actually." A giddy smile twitched at the corner of my mouth. "He survived."

"You didn't expect him to."

It was an understatement. Survival had seemed implausible, completely impossible, and unprepared for the grief of Sparrow, of my mother and father, I had avoided the gathering of my family and the Thys in our home, had sought instead the numbness of the square. Cairn joined me without question.

"Not really, no." I paused, watching a racketeer weave past, pockets jingling. "I probably should go home."

"Probably. There's no way of telling when now that…" The truth trailed into awkward silence. We were incapable of knowing when the final blow would fall, now that the bloodbath had ended.

"I know."

* * *

The Careers erected a conglomerate of tarps and tents in a shallow hollow within sight of the cornucopia, dragging the greatest spoils to their shelter. With dusk fell a drizzling rain that grew in the darkness to a pounding thunderstorm and a dull dampness seeped into their sleeping bags and clothes. At dawn, Tern woke shivering, and the sky cleared marginally to a cover of mold-grey clouds.

Over breakfast – Capitol bread, toasted over a reluctant fire – an argument arose about the obvious question.

"Now what?" demanded Dia, scowling as she passed out mugs of a steaming liquid, dark brown and thick.

Alexus sipped appreciatively. "What do you mean?"

"What's next? Where do we go? What – who should we find first?"

Ambiguously: "Weakest or strongest."

"Really helpful, Alexus. Positively crystal clear," snorted Rami. "What he means," she elaborated, "is the least skilled or the most dangerous. One's easy to kill, and the other's likely to kill you, so it makes sense to start there."

"Which?" Spar grunted, his mouth stuffed with bread.

"I vote weak," Dia said. "You know, a warm-up." She paused, scrunching up her nose to think. "That'd be District 12 or 6 – both had really low training scores."

Tern scrutinized the cup he was handed, sniffing the spirals of steam suspiciously. "Do we, uh, know where they are?"

"I saw the direction the District 12 pair headed off," Alexus contributed. "Sort of north of here. No idea about District 6, though."

"That could be a good start," agreed Tern. He eyed the mug with continued apprehension. "What is this stuff, anyways?" His compatriots exchanged smirks.

"It's hot chocolate, fish-boy – haven't you ever had it?"

Tern's expression was blank, and Dia's eyes grew wide. "Have you even had chocolate?"

"Once or twice – and I saw this stuff on the train, but who drinks brown sludge for breakfast?" My brother took a tentative mouthful, and then ran his tongue along the corners of his mouth in ecstasy. "Oh – it's good!"

And even Rami couldn't resist urge to laugh, still chuckling when she collected an array of knives and stamped out the fire. "So – District 12?"

* * *

Laughter, uncontained and uncontrollable, rang through the apothecary. Mera leaned against the counter, clutching her side, while Sparrow had doubled over in helpless giggles on the floor. When I smiled, the muscles in my face felt sore from disuse.

My mother seemed torn between mirth and sadness, a barely perceptible frown on her lips.

"What's wrong, Mum?"

"He'd never had hot chocolate," she sighed, absently rubbing her left temple. "Lune always has hot chocolate around, and I - I just wish he'd had a chance, that's all. I wish he'd been able to "

"Mum." The things left unsaid stopped her.

"I know, I shouldn't think that way." Her lips turned slightly upward. "Try some hot chocolate next time you're at Aunt Lune's, okay?"

As though she might lose me as well.

I nodded, drifting back to the screen and Caesar's commentary: "-never tried hot chocolate! Unthinkable to those of us in the Capitol, but he's just darling, isn't he? Let's take a look at the tributes from District 6, now – they've developed some excellent camouflage-"

* * *

As it happened, the Career pack didn't find the tributes from District 12 that day, nor did they come close. To Caesar's chagrin and to general public relief, the group of allies became immediately sidetracked, scarcely having left their established base where Dia had agreed – somewhat resentfully – to stand guard.

Galumphing between trees and boggy puddles, mace slung over his shoulder, Spar took the lead, and District 2 followed in a cautious, quietly muttering cluster, weapons at the ready. Tern brought up the rear, eyes trained on the squishing muck beneath his boots. The four figures slogged forward in relative silence, punctured by the paranoia of a snapped twig or sudden slip, gradually drawing level with a sluggish creek. At a few yards away, the murky water was barely visible through the undergrowth.

Spar grinned, gesturing to the clothing the tributes wore. "A reason for the boots."

"As if we didn't have one already," snapped Rami. "Get on with it already." Unperturbed, Spar strode forward, and at the shift of his weight, promptly sank knee-deep into the mud.

"What the -"

The sodden earth seemed to have given way underneath him, devouring thighs and hips with alarming rapidity. In a feeble escape attempt, Spar attempted to push himself free, only to find his hands and wrists similarly trapped. The mace dragged him further into the soil.

The other Careers stared at their ally, now chest deep in the mud.

"Quicksand," breathed Alexus.

Spar seemed panicked. "Don't just stand there, dammit – help me!"

A brief, almost imperceptible glance passed between Rami and Alexus, a silent debate. A pause, and then Tern sidestepped them both, planting his feet firmly on a net of tree roots and grasping Spar's upper arm. Thoroughly outweighed, he tugged vainly.

"A little help?"

Alexus sighed, seizing Spar's other arm, and with obvious reluctance, Rami reached to grip the hood of his rain jacket. Heaving against the suction of the sand, they managed – slowly, excruciatingly – to extract Spar's bulk from the sand. He collapsed to the ground, a thick layer of mud smeared as high as his elbows and ribs.

The mace, disregarded in their efforts, was swallowed by the sands.

Tern leaned against a mossy tree trunk in exhaustion, droplets sweat across his forehead. It took more than a moment for the others to recover.

"You idiot," panted Rami. "You stupid, bloodthirsty, idiot. What the hell were you thinking, just blundering in? Don't you - can't you even - why -" Incoherent with frustration, her words dissolved into breathless swearing.

"You wouldn't have come to get me. He only did it because he felt guilty," retorted Spar, pushing himself into a sitting position. "Bitch."

Her face contorted, and Alexus intervened. "Cameras, Rami."

"Whatever."

A weapon lost and the heavy silence of the swamp disturbed, the group eventually elected to abandon the hunt for District 12, and instead began an exploratory trek for accessible fresh water, for the boundaries of the quicksand, for potential indications of other tributes. There was a weary day of walking and periodic bickering, a return to camp that failed to result in a single canon and pouring rain again that night.

The Careers, for obvious reasons, felt no need to repeat the fiasco the following day.

Alexus assumed command. "We'll go north, again – all of us. Too far away to leave someone behind, at this point."

Excluded from the mud, the exhaustion, the fruitless hunt, Dia had spent the previous afternoon shredding the bark from a nearby tree, and had seen nothing of her competitors.

"We know where the quicksand is, where District 12 went – hard to cover tracks in the swamp. If they have good gear, we might spend the night after we "

"After we kill them," finished Spar, who, in good spirits, had selected a replacement flail from the cornucopia. "Right."

"Bloodthirsty idiot," Rami grumbled.

Weary and pale, Tern rolled his eyes, contributing nothing to the conversation or the various arguments of route and method as they hiked northward. Sodden logs appeared increasing regularity, boot marks smeared across their trunks, and slashed vines had been opened into a narrow path. The Careers stopped speaking, tense with anticipation. And then –

"Aster, is that you?"

Hesitant, scared. The predatory tributes ducked into the cover of the trees, a puddle splashing faintly in their wake. Leaning into the moss and mildewed wood, Tern gripped the spear tightly, face tinted pale green in anxiety and leaf-filtered light. His allies raised their weapons.

A thin girl with wide-set, terrified grey eyes emerged from behind a clump of damp shrubs.

"Aster?"

"I'm still over here, Leat." Her district partner appeared on the other side of the small clearing, tall and dark haired. A backpack was slung over his shoulder, a long hunting knife clutched in his hand.

She frowned. "But I heard you over there…"

Catching the attention of the Careers, Alexus held up five fingers, and slowly began to count down.

"What?"

Four fingers, and the group of hunters tensed.

"I heard you – or something - over there. A splash, I think." She pointed vaguely towards the hiding place of her predators. Alexus lowered another finger.

The boy's attempt to smile was a grimace. "You're hearing things. Remember the hissing sounds yesterday? And we never saw-"

"Aster, I'm telling you, there's something-"

The blow of the flail knocked her head backwards with a crack, and left a score of deep, bleeding gashes across her face. A canon, even before the body splashed to the ground.

* * *

_A/N - And on that note, I take my leave. Reviews and/or suggestions would make my day._


	10. Chapter Nine - Snake Knot

_A/N - Sorry...it's been a long hiatus. Per usual, I own nothing._

* * *

Spar had swung at a mere two fingers. There was a moment of pause as the other tributes struggled to process what had happened, then chaos, screaming, pleading with time to unturn. The remaining tribute from District 12 shook with shock, with sobs.

"Leat, you can't be – no!"

"Thought you'd live? Thought she'd live?" A mad, cackling laugh poured from Spar's mouth. He swung the flail idly as he advanced, splattering his clothing with crimson droplets. "Wrong, weren't you? Wrong."

Outside the clearing, Dia shifted uneasily, as though moving to help, and Alexus raised an arm to halt her. Rami raised her eyebrows, dubious.

_Wait,_ he mouthed.

As Spar raised his arm for the death blow, the boy from District 12 darted sideways, then lunged forward. The head of the flail crashed into the mud, missing its target and flinging earth in all directions. At the same moment, the full length of the hunting knife plunged into Spar's chest, the handle protruding from where it lodged between his ribs. He stumbled to his knees, a dark stain blossoming onto his rain jacket, eyes bulging in shock as he slumped forward.

A cannon. Stunned, his adversary retreated slowly backwards, footsteps squelching into the silence.

"Can we move _now_, Alexus?" Her tone sarcastic and pointed, Rami strode from behind the trees without waiting for the words of release.

Unarmed, the remaining tribute from District 12 whirled, heading at run for the trees. Her thrown dagger sliced across the side of his neck, blood soaking the neck of his tee shirt and dribbling down the backpack. The boy clapped a hand over the wound, and though his pace slowed, becoming painfully lopsided, he kept running, vanishing from the clearing.

Rami shook her head and swore, stepping gingerly over a smear of blood to retrieve her knife.

"I was aiming for the head," she said, more to herself than her allies, who now followed her into the soggy glade. "That was pathetic. I should have killed him."

"Did you mean to let Spar – you know, off himself?" Dia asked, abnormally pale but otherwise unaffected by the loss of her district partner.

"Kind of." Alexus turned over the girl's body with his toe, unabashed by the question.

My brother sat down on a half-rotted stump, watching the bloody pool grow beneath Spar with an expression of nausea. "Why aren't we following the boy, Aster? He's not dead–"

"Not dead yet," Rami corrected, "but it won't be long, not with that wound. It doesn't make sense to chase someone who's practically dead –"

The cannon blast fell heavily on the muffled silence of the swamp.

"Practically dead anyway," she finished, triumphant. "See, I told you."

Absentmindedly, Dia twirled a lock of auburn hair. "So if he's dead, now what?"

"There aren't any supplies here, so we go back, I guess. Alexus?"

He concurred. The remaining four of the Careers began to trudge southwards, retracing the sunken, muddy footprints of the morning. The thin sunlight faded, the foliage dyed a deeper, darker green, and the air grew increasingly damp, foreboding the evening rain.

As she walked, Rami swung the broadsword in an idle, aimless way, whacking leaves and small branches from the surrounding trees. A crack, and a small deluge of twigs showered onto Dia's head.

"Will you stop that already?"

"It's not doing anything to you – I mean, other than getting sticks in your _beauteous_ hair."

"That's not the problem! You've been knocking stuff off trees for the past hour, leaving a stupid pile of sticks and – and it's annoying, it's – it's dangerous – someone might hear!"

"Oh, right – _that's_ what's bothering you."

"Just because _you_ didn't think of it–"

"Knock it off," said Alexus.

"You can't really be taking her side–"

"Shut up, Rami – it's not important." At the head of the group, he had stopped with his head cocked and brow furrowed. "Listen. Did you hear that?"

There was moment of foggy silence as the two girls ceased to bicker, joining Tern and Alexus in tense, nervous vigil.

"I don't hear anyth–"

A noise in the distance, muffled by the moisture of the air – stumbling, uncautious footsteps, blundering through the swamp. The unsteady gait grew closer, cracking branches and splashing puddles were punctured by a broken monologue, a fractured voice through the trees:

"I won't, I won't – you can't make me." The footsteps, though unsteady, seemed to be making rapid progress, and the Careers could hear a ragged breathing that roughed the words. "Twisting, twisting, and eyes and teeth in the trees – sound like a train whistle, a soft whistle, and – no –"

The tribute screamed suddenly, a piercing, wordless cry. Tern started in alarm, his allies cringing, weapons hanging slack and stunned at their sides.

"No, I won't – it hurts, it hurts – want water. The tap's rusty, water smells like oil – and the well is two blocks, then to the left. Always to the left – always, always. Thirsty – please, water."

From a rustle of bushes, a narrow figure appeared, smeared from head to toe with mud, plastered in mosses and leaves. A tattered, matted mess of a braid hung over one shoulder, color unidentifiable. Her eyes were unfocused, eerily distinct from the dirt covering her face, and she didn't seem to see the ensemble of Careers before her.

Slowly, uncharacteristically hesitant, Rami drew a knife from her belt. She waited, glancing at her blank-faced allies for approval. Very slightly, Alexus shook his head.

"Please, please. Water, Papa – there has to be some. It hurts – has to be some – hurts…"The girl continued to stagger forward, speaking to herself in a wheezing mumble: "Teeth – it hurts – left – drowning–"

Without warning, she screamed again and fell to her knees, features twitching, contorting. Limbs jerking uncontrollably, breathing a gurgling gasp, the girl collapsed forward. A final convulsion, splattering murky water across the Careers' boots, then the tribute lapsed into stillness.

The third cannon of the day was every bit as shocking as the first.

Tern broke the long and petrified silence that followed, too exhausted for fear. "You know," my brother said dryly, "I almost thought we had the arena figured out."

* * *

"And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen," chattered Caesar, "the debut of a Capitol hybrid created _especially_ for this year's Hunger Games: the Black Coral snake, or _Dendroaspis annellatus hibridus_ to our wonderful Gamemakers, is a cross between the coral and the black mamba snakes, both highly feared–"

"Because the snakes just weren't frightening enough by themselves," Cairn quipped. In the evening of an impossibly long Tuesday, we sat together on the steps of the schoolhouse, overlooking the bright screens of the town square and crowds of fishermen, recently returned from sea. "We need a mutated version of everything alive."

He raised an eyebrow, attempting for the hundredth time to coax a smile. I tried, halfheartedly, to lift my lips, but my face felt pinched with anxiety.

"What, not funny?"

"Funny, but – I'm sorry, Cairn. I appreciate this, I really do. I'm just–"

"Tired, worried, and scared." He waved a hand, cutting me off as I began to apologize again. "It's fine, Lark. You don't have to be sorry."

"I am, anyways."

"That's not the point." A moment of silence, watching as Tern and the Careers shared bread, tinned meat, and apples – a modest and subdued dinner, eaten while paranoid and alert.

"And the point is–"

"The point–" Cairn responded softly, barely audible under the chatter of spectators, "– is that this whole, messed-up situation isn't your fault. It's theirs," he said, gesturing towards the image towering over the square. "It's not you – it's the Capitol, and you shouldn't feel guilty."

Lost for words, wrung out by emotion, I closed my eyes and let Caesar's babble cut into our conversation: "–venom is a cardio- and neurotoxin, also highly hallucinogenic. I think we all have to agree that it was a _fabulously_ dramatic introduction–"

"Lark?" Cairn said, grasping my wrist.

"I hate the word 'fabulous.'"

He laughed, though rather sadly. "Me too."

* * *

The sunrise of Tern's fourth day in the arena had a muted quality, sullen and soggy as the Careers that it woke. The morning still seemed sluggish when a pair sliver parachutes drifted from the sky, tumbling through the branches and into camp with a shower of water and damp leaves. Two packages – both small, sheathed in a waterproof wrapping – landed lightly, just outside the array of tarps that composed the camp.

"I think we've been given a gift." Looking up from freeze-dried porridge and packets of hot chocolate, Rami was first to notice the arrival. The other Careers followed her gaze.

"You want me to–"

"No, I'll get it." She abandoned breakfast for a brief tramp across muddy ground, ripping through the plastic casing as she returned. Tossing the rubbish carelessly aside, Rami presented the two parcels deemed important enough to send through hellfire with a shrug.

The first package drew a greater portion of immediate interest: a hermetically sealed vial of clear liquid, strapped to an empty syringe and an intimidatingly long needle. In accordance with the rules of the Games, there were no instructions, no explanations, no clues – and this lead immediately to an argumentative sort of guesswork.

"It's medication."

"Obviously, thanks for that."

"Well, if you've got a better idea–"

"The real question is," Tern interjected tiredly, speaking across them, "what is it for?"

Rami snorted. "Probably some poisonous plant that we've already eaten, and the Gamemakers are laughing their heads off, waiting for us to keel over."

"Funny," said Alexus, without a trace of humor, "except we haven't actually eaten anything from the arena, not anything besides the packaged foods."

"They could have poisoned those, I wouldn't put it past them–"

"I doubt it," he countered, examining the vial critically. "Really only looks like there's enough for one–"

"Which means no one actually needs it yet?" Dia suggested hopefully. "I mean, we've got sponsors, and usually they send enough for us all…"

"Usually. Sometimes they just don't care, though."

"Comforting, Rami."

Tern rolled his eyes. "Well, if there's not enough to go around, the medicine's no use – unless we know what it's for."

"Plant is unlikely – usually salves for that," said Alexus. "So – an animal?"

"Has anyone actually seen an animal in here?" asked Dia, gesturing to the surrounding arena. They had scarcely heard birdsong in the eerie silence of the forest, let alone seen a creature with teeth. Insects, however, were plentiful.

"It could be for the mosquitoes, I guess – malaria and such."

"Nah, we all had bites by the second day, even with bug repellant," said Tern. "They would have sent some then, and enough for all of us."

"Spiders, ticks, fleas?"

"Those are bugs, too – and I don't think I have fleas, thanks."

"Just a thought."

A pause, a moment of ponderous silence as the Careers passed the vial and syringe hand to hand, occasionally holding the crystalline liquid up to the thin light for examination. Even trained, knowledgeable in the art of the Games, the group of allies was mystified.

"Well," Rami said eventually, her voice equal parts irritation and resignation, "when someone gets bitten or wounded or poisoned – or _whatever_, we'll try this stuff. Best we can do."

Her companions concurred.

"Fair enough," said Tern. "What's the other package?"

Unexpectedly, Rami broke into a wide grin and procured the second parcel: a small plastic bag, crammed to bursting with tiny white cylinders, which seemed to squish a little in her grip. "It's for you, I think."

His brow furrowed, Tern accepted the gift in utter bemusement. "What are these?"

"Marshmallows." Dia smiled as well, her words fracturing with suppressed giggles. "They're a sort of sweet, made of – of puffed sugar, I think. Your – your mentor must really have a sense of humor."

"I don't–"

"Hot chocolate," said Rami, as Alexus joined in the laughter. "That's how we did it in District 2 – you have marshmallows in your hot chocolate. It's a joke – they sent you the marshmallows you'd never seen for the hot chocolate you'd never had."

Tern rolled his eyes as he tore open the bag with his thumbnail and gingerly selected a marshmallow. He chewed contemplatively, and after a moment, raised the white fluffy conglomerate in an ironic toast to the sky. "Thank you, Finnick."

And with a softened expression, he offered the marshmallows around the circle of allies, who accepted eagerly. As they sucked on the chewy sweetness, the quiet was contented, but the tension of the arena slowly crept in, raising the obvious question:

"So, now what?"

Eventually, after a breakfast-long debate, the Careers elected to take a day of rest. The decision – and the proceeding debate – hinged on a few simple facts. As was repeatedly pointed out, the longer the alliance waited, the further away their quarry would be, and the more time it took to locate the other tributes, the longer they would be vulnerable to the perils of the Games. The group, however, was tired, a fact that could easily to slowness and carelessness, to another hunt that would likely yield nothing.

These, in and of themselves, would like have been controversial enough. What remained unspoken, yet universally acknowledged, was the third factor – the unknown danger to which they had been given an antidote, the mysterious death of the girl the previous day, the rapidly dwindling number of their alliance. Reluctantly, they took an impatient day of rest, and they waited, planning their strike.

* * *

It was a dull day for the viewers, yet also a day of reprieve, an excruciatingly brief pause in which – hopefully – no one would die. As a result, the apothecary had taken on a nearly normal bustle. Mera dispensed cough syrup, listening patiently to the hoarse chattering of her customer, while I crushed garlic cloves between a driftwood cutting board and the flat edge of a knife. Interest exhausted, Sparrow disengaged from the general noise and curled in a corner, quietly amused by a handful of shells and some string.

"Watch your fingers." My mother emerged from the back room, balancing jars of ground chicory root and dried arnica. She settled herself at the counter.

"_Mum_."

"I know, I know." Her hands moved almost automatically, shelving herbs, retrieving oils. "You never cut yourself, but it's a mother's privilege to worry."

For a brief moment, in a nearly imperceptible pause, I thought I saw her eyes flicker to the canvas screen and my brother's fleeting image, but she continued as though nothing had happened.

"Almost done there?" my mother asked, voice slightly muffled as she rummaged through the cupboard space below the counter.

"Mm-hmm."

She straightened up, holding a small earthenware container, and pulled a nub of pencil and a scrap of paper from her apron pocket. There was a light scratching sound as she wrote. "Good. When you're finished, I'd like you to take this delivery out. I know that normally I send Sparrow, but – but it's quite a ways away – and well…"

The aversion of her eyes, the nervous hesitancy in her voice was a grating lie – or at best, an omission. Sighing silently, I scraped the last of the garlic from the blade and cutting board.

"Okay – where am I going?"

"The Victor's Village." Under my accusing look, she paused again, almost regretfully. "It's for – for Lune."

"Mum, why don't –"

She lowered her voice, half-glancing towards my sister. "Lune is – Lune's not talking to me, or to anyone, really, and I thought that – I thought that maybe –"

"You thought that I might be able to change that," I finished hollowly, and unable to decide whether I felt angry at the deception, or just simply sad. With a sort of empty exhaustion, I scooped up the parcel and recently completed note. "Is there any point is asking why she's not talking to you?"

"No, probably not."

"Anything specific that I should say?"

Unconsciously, my mother chewed her lip. "I don't think so – I'm not even sure that she'll answer the door."

"Marvelous." The reply was far more sarcastic than I had intended, and I brushed a kiss across her cheek in compensation. "I'll do my best, Mum."

But after a lengthy walk across town – ignoring distant blaring of the screens in the town square and the sympathetic glances of near strangers – the promise was difficult to fulfill, largely due to the fact that my mother had been right on all accounts.

The road that ran through the Victor's Village was deserted, the glimmering houses so motionless and silent that the clattering and slapping of my footsteps seemed unnaturally loud. Of five occupied homes – mansions, really – Aunt Lune lived in the fourth on the right, a tall building that was painted sunny yellow under expansive shell mosaics. Tentatively, I mounted the few steps onto a wide porch and paused in front of the door, painted a lovely azure blue. A single rap of the brass knocker effectively shattered the stillness.

The knock, while startling, was met with silence.

"Aunt Lune?"

I waited momentarily, glancing around. Though in the bright midday sun, a light window would have been hard to identify, I still thought that I could see the bluish effect of a projector on the first floor. Whether imagined or not, it felt thoroughly awkward to be ignored.

"Aunt Lune?" I tried again. "It's Lark, your niece. Mum sent me. Could you – would you answer the door, please?"

There was no response, expect the whisper of a vague breeze.

"Aunt Lune?"

Eventually, I abandoned my efforts, positioning the clay pot – which smelled strongly of Saint John's wort – on the doormat and slipping the note under the lid. The soft sea wind ruffled the edge of the paper, and the temptation suddenly became overwhelming.

I crouched, retrieved the message, and read quickly, aiming to finish before the onset of guilt. My mother's neat script had etched only a few lines.

_Usual mix, usual dosage instructions. You know what to do._

_I don't blame you, Lune. I'm not mad._

_Please talk to me. – Swallow_

Refolding the message exactly as it had come and leaving the parcel on the doorstep, I departed the Village quickly. Nearly jogging down the hill into town, I reflected that my mother, the same nearly all of us since the day of the Reaping, was fighting a losing battle.


End file.
